When I Fall In Love
by Airena
Summary: Chapter 25 up finally (long hiatus, eh) Erik releases Christine, but they both find it wasn't for the better. (I'm horrid at summaries.) R & R, if you please.
1. A Kiss Gooodbye

**Author's Note:** My own take on the ending of PotO. There are sure to be changes from the Phantom books/story lines, but, like many others, I'm going to abuse my artistic license to mix the stories. I hope you all don't mind. - This takes place towards the end of the torture chamber scene in Susan Kay's _Phantom_. Please review and tell me if I should keep this thing going!

**Disclaimer:** I own **_nothing_**! runs off to weep

**Erik**:

"You're not alone, my angel," Christine almost cooed, her voice wavering from with some emotion that I took as terror. When her fingers were on the lapels of my dress coat, her whisper was suddenly urgent. "Take me! _Teach me. . ._"

I remember falling into glorious bliss, drowning in euphoria; finding peace in her arms. In that moment, it felt as if our bodies were one, our hearts beating to the same rhythm. The warmth from her body filled me with a happiness that I had never felt in my entire life. And yet I couldn't bring myself to touch her, my arms merely hovering around her, trembling with both fear and passion. Cruel reality embraced me as I jerked away. I felt inebriated, my body suddenly heavy. She smiled slightly and, though the tears still ran down her cheeks, she had stopped crying. I pulled away slowly and walked away a few paces, too stunned for petty words. I didn't know what to do, too numb even to think. I stared at her with the blank expression of a drunk, my breaths coming in ragged gasps as I struggled to keep my feelings reined.

_This isn't right_, I kept screaming in my mind, _this isn't right!_ But it was what I had wanted, wasn't it? This is what I had demanded of her. It was as if everything I had been planning for, everything I had been hoping for had suddenly shattered once my commands had been met. Hopelessly I walked further away from her, glaring at anything and everything but her. _This isn't right. . ._

_This is what I wanted_, _wasn't it?_ Suddenly I began questioning every single decision I had made up until that moment. Here I was, putting myself above petty human emotion, struck-down by feelings of love. Was it really so much to ask to be loved? Worse yet, was it really worth throwing around death threats to be loved?

"No. . ." The word snuck slowly past my lips; it seemed as if standing of my own accord seemed to be out of the question, and I lurched a few paces away to rest against the wall farthest from my wicked torture device. "No, no. . ."

Her hand came slowly to my shoulder; she tugged me gently back to face her, tilting her face up slightly. Suppressing a cry, I could only stare longingly into her tear-stained face. Her eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted in the smallest of smiles. As much as I tried, I couldn't control myself, the walls I'd set up around my emotions shattering in a second. Eagerly I brought my lips down to meet hers, tentatively wrapping my arms around her. I'd never experienced this peace, this simple joy. Her dark hair curled around my fingers and I could feel her hand on the back of my neck. It's surprising that so much passion could be behind such a small gesture - a touch, a hug. . . _a kiss_. . .

This time it was her turn to pull away. Her reluctance at breaking our tenuous union was palpable. My heart ached when I looked in her eyes. At the time I refused to believe it, but now it's no longer possible to say that I didn't see the adoration that lit up her beautiful face. Her hand lifted mine to her cheek, and I caressed her skin ruefully, my own eyes glazing over. Her lips began reaching up to meet mine again, but I sadly turned away. Never had I felt such pain and utter agony. . . My fingers brushed her fair skin once more, savoring each precious second. I couldn't stand it. . . I took her into my arms, and held her, rocking back and forth to our own secret music. . .

The spell was broken abruptly. I slowly released her, flipping the switch that would turn-off the lights in the torture chamber. My eyes began to burn, and that familiar lump in my throat began to grow. I let out a trembling breath, trying to keep my emotions in check. I felt her delicate hand on my arm and I turned to look at her one last time. "Christine. . ."

I didn't know what else to say, so I dazedly murmured her name a few more times. Slowly her hand moved and touched my face, which, I half-noticed, was unmasked. Her touch was gentle, timid, warm, and I struggled not to flinch. I was shocked that she wasn't retching at the sight of my deformity. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the usual anger and humiliation and yet. . . I didn't care. _I didn't care!_

"Christine," I whispered slowly, listening to my own voice as if it were someone else talking. I felt no breath pass my lips as I mouthed, "Christine. . . _I love you_."

And as quickly as it had arrived, that one perfect moment was over.

I sighed heavily, walking towards Raoul as he entered, realizing yet again what I could never even hope to have, what I could never share with Christine. How could a monster – an ugly _thing _– even be worthy enough to desire her, much less ever hope to have her love? Among my credits were side-show freak, morphine addict, cowering beast, a _murderer_. . . It was little wonder that she would choose this perfect man over me. . .

He stood before us, tired and glistening with sweat. I noted darkly how, despite having almost been victim to a torture device that induced suicide, he looked as dashing and handsome as ever. I stiffened, a fresh wave of hate bursting at my heart, but one glance at Christine melted away the ice. I straightened myself slightly and the next few moments flew past. I could barely remember what happened until I joined Raoul's hand with Christine's. I was vaguely aware of the tears rolling down my cheeks, but I couldn't care less. Rambling, I asked foolishly for an invitation for their wedding, knowing damn well that I sounded like a lunatic. Blankly I sent them away and asked Nadir to have tea. . . Silently I berated myself for my idiocy, my ignorance, struggling to keep my composure so as not to upset Christine. Had I watched them leave, I knew I would have died in all forms of the word.

We walked into the kitchen and Nadir shut the door behind him. I stood at the table, steepling my hands on it, with a bowed head. My back faced him and I strained to hear Christine leave. We were both still for a long time, I think, before I dropped into a chair and said softly, "Forgive me, Nadir. . ."

I sensed that he hadn't moved and I imagined the look of disbelief on his face. I heard him making the tea and I folded my hands on the table. Thankfully, he knew well enough not to look at me while I was still unmasked. I didn't need to see, nor did I want to see, that look of restrained horror in his eyes.

"I. . . I understand," he replied after a while, his voice steady despite the tinge of anger in his inflection, as he waited for the water to boil. "I understand."

Of course, I had half expected him to throw a knife at me, or something equally dramatic and violent, and was looking forward to it. I knew however, that he _didn't_ comprehend it all, but I suppose he thought it would make me feel better? I could have laughed had I thought about it at the time. He placed a mug in front of me and took a seat. Eons of silence passed between us, and I could only stare at the liquid in the mug, instinctively keeping my head down. I heard him impatiently tapping the table with his finger tips in a less than steady rhythm. Suddenly he shot up, and I guessed correctly that his frustration had gotten the better of him, his chair clattering as it fell to the floor. "Fool," he whispered, shaking his head. "How can you just sit there? How can you stay silent after what just happened? I told you to leave her and her boy alone. How can you just sit there in silence?"

I looked up, my eyes carefully devoid of emotion. I saw the tiniest flutter of disgust flash through Nadir's eyes when he saw my face but ignored it. "I'm not such a lunatic to not know what I've done," I muttered flatly. "But it's quite clear, Daroga, that you _don't_ understand, despite what you've said. I've lost her; I've lost my angel. . . nothing _mattered_ but her. Whatever I do now will do nothing to change that." Slowly I stood, turning my back to him. "Please. . . if you truly think that you're such a good friend, then leave me in peace."

"Erik. . . I-"

"_GO!_"

He jumped slightly and he soon replaced the chair he was sitting on onto its four legs. I detachedly watched him storm out and heard the door slam behind him. I remained where I was for a while longer before taking both of the mugs on the table and hurling them at the wall.

Ayesha came, rubbing herself against my legs affectionately, oblivious to the drama that had just taken place only moments before. I stroked her back when she hopped onto my lap. My eyes were locked onto the shards of glass on the floor and, when I regained my senses, I realized indifferently that an hour had passed since Nadir left. I woke Ayesha, who had been contentedly napping on my knee, and walked into the drawing room. I collapsed into the wingback chair, my hand instinctively groping at my chest as a shuddering cry escaped my lips.

"Christine. . ." I wailed, tears flowing freely; my head in my hands, leaning forward on my knees, moaning that name. I experienced such indescribable pain in those fleeting moments. "Why?" I sobbed. "My angel. . . why? Oh, my beautiful angel. . ."

My mind lapsed into a period of self-loathing so powerful that I didn't realize that I had been clawing at my wretched face until I felt the warm blood trickling down my palms and sunken cheeks. I wiped my hands together slowly and strode over to my organ. I sat down on the bench and was soon pounding at the keys, all thoughts of harmony and melody lost to me. So long as it resembled music, it would suffice.

Both my soul and body were lost in the sound, enveloped by the effort of piecing the notes together. I felt as if I was drowning in this temporary elation that the music gave me. Indeed, music is my love. Music would never lie to me, never deceive me. It would never judge the monstrosity that is my face. It would not fall trembling during one of my blind rages. I was safe to offer my life to my music, and it would not deny me its simple pleasures. . .

I realized, suddenly, that I was playing the song that I had composed for her so many months ago. The memory forced itself upon me and I felt the tears begin to return. But despite it all - as my body shuddered from the agony, when my eyes grew sore from mourning - I couldn't bring myself to stop. I found myself reciting the words softly, at first, and then with growing strength:

"_Close your eyes,  
For your eyes  
Will only tell the truth -  
And the truth  
Isn't what you want to see.  
In the dark,  
it is easy to pretend  
That the truth  
Is what it ought to be. . ."_

My fingers suddenly stopped, and I sat with my hands poised over the keys. I knew that I couldn't continue. . . I played a few more measures, a bitter smile on my lips:

"_You alone  
can make my song take flight -  
It's over now - the music of the night. . . ._"

(**A/N**: The song was obviously the Music of the Night from the OLC Highlights of Phantom of the Opera, if you didn't know. Thanks for reading! Please review - criticism is highly welcomed (if not required).)


	2. Freedom

**Disclaimer:** *muffled noises can be heard in the background* Hm? Oh, that's just Erik in the closet. I won him off of Gaston Leroux in a high-stakes bet. . . Apparently someone already kidnapped Susan Kay's version, as well as Andrew Lloyd Webber's. More than once, in fact.

  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

Dazed, I allowed Raoul to pull me from Erik's home, crying freely as I stared helplessly at the shrinking house. Raoul rowed forcefully with all of his strength, as if trying to get away before Erik leapt out, demanding my immediate return. In fact, that was exactly what I was waiting for, what I was wishing for with all my heart and soul. I stared at the front door of my Angel's home as if I could penetrate it with my mind. _Erik,_ I screamed silently, _Erik, what are you doing to me? To **us**?_. . .

We rowed across the glassy lake quietly, the only sound being the eerie echo of the water splashing against the boat. I thought that I heard my name being called and I turned to glance back at the shadows behind us. I realized with a twang of anger and sadness that he wouldn't come. . . When the small boat reached the middle of the lake, Raoul had a wide grin on his face, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead from the exertion of rowing. His blue eyes were on me, as if expecting. . . what? A laugh? Did he want me to kiss him? I was suddenly frustrated with his boyish innocence, which I had found so appealing before. I wiped my eyes half-heartedly looking out across the still, black waters.

"You're free," Raoul said suddenly, the relief in his tone causing an ache in my chest. His laugh was rough as it echoed off the invisible walls. "_We're_ free! We did it, Christine! That man. . . that _thing_ won't bother us any longer. . . I can finally marry you, my love. You will be my wife!"

I could only stare up at him blankly. He wanted me to do something, but I didn't know what. Finally, after several moments, I managed a soft laugh.

Though I showed Raoul a smile, I truly wanted to leap from that boat and attempt to swim back to Erik, even if it meant drowning.

  
  
The next few weeks whirled past, dragging me along like a scrap of paper on the sea. Raoul had been in what seemed like a mad dash to get our wedding in order. I suppose he blamed my impassiveness on the fact that I had been through so much hell. The truth was, my heart was no longer set on marrying Raoul, but how could I deny him this simple right after what I had forced him through? I would have laughed at such irony, but I didn't have the energy to. Surely I could not say no to Raoul now. It was too late, too late. . .

It's odd that I could grant Raoul this special privilege, when it was Erik who deserved it most. . . I could never push him out of my mind, not even for an instant. Those pleading eyes, that mournful wail. . . It broke my heart to think of it, and more than once I wished to die for what I did to him. _What if I hadn't tried to deceive him?_ I'd ask myself, rocking back and forth as I unconciously tried to remember that secret music that was ours alone. _What if I hadn't torn away his mask? What if I had just said "Yes" when he first asked for my hand?_ My head was so filled with "what-ifs" that I felt as if it whould explode.

Most of my time was spent sitting in from of my fire place, staring past the flames that dance around. I'd hum to myself, mumbling the words to the songs that remind me of him. Those flames. . . I'd seen them more than once dancing in Erik's golden eyes as he moved around like a panther. . . Those violent rages, I think, are what had finally forced my innocent mind to see him as a monster, and not as the true Angel that was there.

I was never allowed to speak of him with Raoul, not even to hint at him. Had Raoul known that he was on my mind every waking moment, he himself would have flown into a rage almost as bad as Erik's. Raoul had even hampered my singing without knowing it. . .

I had been humming an aria from _Faust_, rocking in my chair, I stared at the fire distantly and I suddenly sang:

_Past the point  
of no return,  
the final threshhold -   
the bridge  
is crossed, so stand  
and watch it burn. . .  
We've past the point  
of no re-"_

There was a loud crash behind me and slowly I turned around. Raoul stood there, his shoulders hunched, his breath coming in quick gasps. His fists clenched and unclenched; the fire cast shadows across his face, illuminating his enraged bloodshot eyes. He stared so viciously at me that I stood without knowing it, trying to edge away. He stared at me, and I felt as if I would burst into flame. Coming closer, he seemed to snarl. . .

"Raoul," I whispered. "Raoul, my dear, what's come over you?"

He flung the chair I had been sitting in to the ground with such force that it shattered. "You're singing _his_ music," he growled. As he came closer, I could faintly small the wine on his breath and clothes. "That _thing_. . ." His voice suddenly became louder, "Why are you singing that monster's song? Why do you mope over _him_ when it is _I_ who truly suffers? You lied to me, Christine! You kept returning to that Demon's lair while _I_ waited in fear, while _I_ tried to rescue you!"

There were tears in his eyes as he pinned me to the wall. "Why do you care about that beast so much?" he cried. "He was a murderer! He tried to _kill_ me, for Christ's sake!"

I bit my lip to keep from crying, the alcohol on his breath becoming more obvious. "Raoul, you're scaring me. . ."

"Am I?" he said sarcastically. "Do you know, the whole time we've been here, you haven't once tried to thank me for trying to rescue you from that wretched monster? If it weren't for me, he would have kept you - "

"But you didn't, Raoul!" I screamed in frustration. My eyes met his and we were both on the verge of weeping. But I couldn't help it. . . "You didn't save me, you made things worse! I had to save _you_ - "

I cut myself off with a gulp as he seemed to grow larger, his face twisting in pain and fury. He raised a fist suddenly and held it there, his breathing loud and uneven. I turned my head and closed my eyes tightly, waiting for that explosion of pain. When nothing happened, I risked a glance and saw that he still had his fist raised, his hand trembling. His eyes were clouded, unsure of what to do. The confusion was written on his face, etched into the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I'm sorry Christine," he mumbled softly. I could hear the anger in his wavering voice still, but he had contained it for the moment. He rushed out of the room with the grace only drunkness could give, slamming the door shut.

The next day, he sent me chocolates and red roses; he even went so far as to buy me a diamond necklace which I never wore. Of course, with a soft smile, I forgave him when he apologized for his roughness and denied that he believed what had been said, knowing full well that he was lying.

  
  
  
  
  
(**Author's Note:** Like it? Hate it? Too long? Please review!) 


	3. Darkest Dreams

**A/N:** Thanks to my reviewers (Midasgirl, Alexis, Claire Starling, Phantomgurl33, Snapdragon, Chicketieboo, and BansheeReader). *gives them red roses* On a completely different note, should I get a CD of Ken Hill's version of the Phantom of the Opera? I keep hearing great things about it, and after hearing a clip of "While Floating High Above", I've been hooked. I'd be very grateful if anyone knows where I can buy it, preferably from/in the states. I can't find it on Amazon.com, and I've only seen the Yeston/Kopit version at Sam Goody. Oh, and should I get the Y/K version as well? Thanks goes to anyone who can offer an opinion!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, not mine, not mine.

  
  
  
  
**Nadir:**

I debated with myself, wondering if I should return to his home. More than likely I wouldn't be wanted. I smirked bitterly, knowing I would have to go through the torture chamber in order to enter.

The next day, I discovered myself going through the passages ways that would lead to that room of death. To my surprise, as I dropped into the mirror room, the exit was still open; all of the candles were out, save a few here and there. Cautiously, fully expecting another trap, I walked through the door and found Erik sitting on the bed, a wedding veil in his hands. He was staring at the material blankly, his golden eyes clouded over. He looked at me without registering my presence and I saw newly drawn blood congealed on his sunken cheeks and on caked on his palms and white shirt. I slowly came over and he suddenly took on the look of a caged wild animal. He backed away from me with feline speed and huddled into a corner, grasping the veil tightly.

"Please don't touch me," he begged hoarsely, drawing his knees up to his chest. With one arm he shielded his face as he held the veil with the other. "Stay away. . . stay away. . ."

I stared at him in confused pity, slowly realizing that he was living in some other time, some distant memory. He was trembling from the tears that fell from his mismatched eyes, clutching the white material in his hands for dear life. I could still hear him whispering "Stay away" as I walked into the outer room, leaving the panel open a crack. I decided that I wouldn't leave him in the current state he was in as his cat hissed at me loudly. It was as if she was blaming me for Erik's state of mind, but she was soon mollified when I set some food down in front of her.

I stayed in his home, feeling guilty for doing so, and made him meals in hopes that he would eat it. To my frustration, he would only take a bite or two and leave the rest untouched. With each passing day, he lapsed farther and farther into the past. He would cry out in imagined agony and pain; he would weep from remembered anguish. I could only watch helplessly as he writhed around on the ground, clawing at his already bleeding face. Once in a while I would see a glint of gold coming from the plain gold band that he always had clasped in his skeletal hands.

To my surprise, a week or so later, he had walked out of the room as I sat on the divan with an unread book on my lap. I immediately stood, my mind grasping wildly for something to say. "Do you want something to eat?" I asked finally. He only stared at me for a moment and suddenly locked himself away in his own bedroom. The sound of his organ was soon audible as he pounded away at the keys.

  
A few days afterward, I heard a crash from his bedroom. I jumped up in alarm and barged into the room. Erik was huddled on the floor, his hand bleeding from where he had left a hole in the wall. I was slowly aware that he was muttering to himself in two different voices. . .

"Idiot. . ." the darker voice muttered; he suddenly looked stronger, taking on the aura of power and mystery I was so used to. "Bastard, _MONSTER_! You were a fool. You had her in your hands, wrapped around your finger! How could you let her go? You could have had her, could have kept her. And you could have led a normal life with her as your living bride! That boy was little more than an obstacle; he could have easily been done away with. Just a quick flick of the wrist and he would have been on the ground twitching. . ."

"I know. . ." the weaker voice replied. He then abruptly became timid, catching me off guard. I'd never seen him look so dejected, so ruined. . . "I know. . . But Christine loved that boy. I wouldn't be able to kill him knowing that it would make her unhappy. . . I love her too much to make her sad. I knew she wouldn't want to live in my world of night and death. . . she needs to be in the world of day. . ."

"She could have adjusted. You could have gone above ground with her when she liked. She could have been yours - don't you realize it? _Yours!_ She was yours to begin with! Yours before she met the Vicomte. Yours when she was little more than a chorus girl with that dull voice. . . that empty voice. . . He loved her for her beauty - I loved everything about her. She's a goddess - the light in the dark of our life. . . She is utter perfection, a true Angel sent from heaven. . . Oh God, why did she leave me. . .?"

"Because she didn't love me as much as I love her." He shuddered as he laid crumpled on the ground. . . "I would have done anything for her. I wanted to make her happy. . . she would have died with me. . . at least with that boy she'd be out in the world. . . with nothing to fear. I just wanted a normal life. . . I just wanted her to love me. . .

"And she never will. . . she never will. . ."

His body was wracked by the pitiful sobs and tears that escaped him; his mind and soul were broken beyond repair.

  
  
**(A/N:** Like it? Hate it? Too long? Sick of me asking the same questions? If this chapter sucked, I am SO sorry, but I promise (or I hope) it'll get better. Don't flame me please. . . well, not much, anyway. . .) 


	4. Black Despair

**A/N:** Thanks to my reviewers again. I just have confidence issues. ^-^;;

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, though I wish they were. . . well, except Raoul, I guess. He's not nice sometimes.

  
  
  
  
  
**Erik:**

I lay in my coffin, staring up blankly, unexplainably tired. For once the emotions had stopped themselves and gave me a moment of tormenting stillness. I remained there impassively, my mind blank. Was I supposed to cry? Was I supposed to scream? The memories still bombarded my head, but I couldn't bring up the energy to react.

Closing my eyes, I pretended that I had died. I lay still, imagining death had welcomely crept up on me and took over my body. Moderating my breath and heartbeat, I imagined that there was a funeral. . . a group of people were there. No one cried silently. No one wept unashamedly. No one remembered me fondly. No one condemned me vehemently. Suddenly I realized that they were staring at my corpse in horror; in disgust; in shock. I was unmasked, but unable to make any move to shield my face. As much as my arms struggled to cover my head, it became more apparent that it was impossible to do so. I was still quite lucid, but I couldn't lift my arms, couldn't move my neck. My thoughts raced urgently in my mind; it soon became apparent that it was impossible to move. It was like I had been held down by invisible chains.

The screams began - those high-pitched shrieks that caught me off-guard and caused me such outraged misery. The screams filled the air, floated around my ears. Those cries of fear continued for what seemed like ages, each tearing something more from me. Those howling screeches clashed in a hideous symphony, reaching a the zenith of its crescendo, and then -

Silence.

Bitter-sweet silence.

I felt as if I had been raised away from my body, away from the pain, away from that pitiful sorrow. I was free - _free_. I was no longer that hideous beast that everyone silently willed to disappear. I was nothing. I was gone. Invisible.

The horror-stricken faces changed into somber expressions, almost apathetic. I recognized them instantle. Mademoiselle Perrault. Giovanni. Reza. Garnier. Madame Giry. Nadir. . .

They stood there a moment longer and left without a trace. Alone again. I savored that quiet, that peace. That emptiness.

I woke myself from the sleep that had snuck-up on me. I had truly thought I had died. . . It would have been appropriate to have perished in that room dedicated to Death. It wouldn't have been so horrible. Just. . . lonely. . .

  
  
I sat on the ground, my legs drawn up to my chest, my arms around my legs. I rocked back and forth, trying to remember her voice, her scent, her touch. I thought that, maybe, if I simply remembered her, she'd come back. Nadir crept in slowly, cautiously, and I simply stared at him, not caring if he saw my face, not caring if he saw the tears mingling with the blood.

"Nadir," I said, slowly getting onto my knees; I didn't have the energy to stand, and he came closer. I could see him wince as he struggled not to reel as he saw my hideousness. "Listen to what I'm going to say, and don't interrupt me, alright?"

He nodded mutely and I continued in a sotto voce, "I am about to ask you to do me a very large favor. . . I've never felt so. . . so horrible, so miserable. . . But at the same time, I feel such. . . rage that I could and would massacre everyone up there if I lost control of myself. . ." My fists clenched when I paused for breath. Before I could stop myself, I punched another hole in the wall detachedly ignoring the pain as if it were someone else's. "But. . . I just brood over the fact that I put her through this hell. . . she hated me, Nadir, and she hates me now. I know it. . . I feel so torn. . . I'm so damn angry at myself for letting her go when I knew she would have followed me into hell if I asked it of her. . .

"But at the back of my mind, I know it was right. I know it's what I should have done to begin with. . . I can only dwell on the fact that she hates me now, and perhaps for eternity. I. . . damn it. . .it just. . . hurts me so much that I can't bear it anymore. I can't. . . I can't. . ."

I choked back the tears that threatened to spill over my cheeks, gripping the veil one last time in my blood-stained hands. I imagined I could still draw in the warmth from the cloth that came from her body, imagined I could still feel the silky hair hidden beneath it. . .

"So I am asking you this, Nadir." I gestured for him to go to my desk and pull out the top drawer. When he did so, he stared at me in complete terror and astonishment when he understood my request. My voice was hardly above a whisper, "Please Nadir. . . I can't do. . . this myself. . ." As if to prove my words, my strength gave out and I fell onto my side, laying still as death. "Please. . . ."

He stared at me, incredulous. I struggled to keep back a sob, my eyes stinging and burning. Nadir held the knife in his shaking hands, terror still on his face. His eyes were wide with shock.

"Please, Nadir. . . I can't bear this anymore. . . this pain. . . God, it hurts, Nadir! _I can't take it!_ Just do it, Nadir. . . I'm a monster; I tried to kill you, after all you've done. Return the gesture, Nadir. I'd rather burn in Hell than endure one more miserable moment of this. I can't do this myself. . . just do this for me, and you don't have to bother with this loathsome creature. You won't have to worry about Erik - monstrous Erik! The beast who dwells in the bowels of the opera house. . . Kill me, Nadir. Just think of all the numerous times I've wronged you, wronged all of humanity. . . Do it. . .!"

Still he stared, his whole body frozen. Numbly, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt and I started to nod slowly. A smile touched my lips as he raised the dagger; I closed my eyes and waited for this blessed release. It would end soon. . . it would all be done and over with. No more fear. No more pain.

Suddenly there was a soft clattering and when I opened my eyes, I saw the glint of the knife's blade on the opposite side of the room. I realized after a moment that a moan had escaped my throat and the tears were spilling down my cheeks. He wouldn't do it, I thought detachedly, as if I were watching this all unfold. My last chance. . .

"I won't do this," Nadir said quietly, turning to leave. "What made you think I could. . .?"

I let out another moan, this one more labored and a hair louder. I shook my head slowly, as if. . . as if my whole wretched existence were some nightmare. I stared at him blankly, and he shuddered under my gaze. I laughed bitterly for a long time, a laugh so horrible that even I was surprised by it. The fear was visible in his eyes as I got back onto my knees, positioned so that only my left cheek was visible.

"So," I whispered ruefully, ignoring his presence, "I've even been denied a quick death. It's not as if my life ever mattered. No one would care if I died, so what's so _wrong_ about it?" Our eyes met, and I watched him coldly. "Perhaps I should have just died in Persia. I'd rather have gone through that physical torture than this. . . You wasted your time with me."

I got to my feet and picked up a black mask from a table near the coffin, putting it on with practiced ease. Drawing myself to my full height, I felt a such complete apathy about everything, detached from my own life. I walked over to Nadir and looked at him indifferently.

"Thank you, Nadir," I said caustically, my voice dripping with undisguised sarcasm, "for all you've done. But _you_ don't seem to understand that as long as you keep me alive, I still die just a bit more."

I brushed past him, Ayesha circling my feet while I entered the music room, slamming the door shut. I needed to release myself in a different way, apparently. Lifting the violin, I drew the bow over the strings violently, the notes throbbing as the escaped the instrument.

  
  
  
  
(**A/N:** Love it? Hate it? Review please! I was too lazy to go through and check for typos and grammar errors, so sorry if you find mistakes. I'll go through it tomorrow.) 


	5. Normal

(**A/N:** This is a short one. . .)

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine, nor will they ever be.

  
  
  
  
  
**Raoul:**

I often wonder what motivated me to attack Christine as I did that night. Never before had I ever subjected myself to the blissful unawareness liquor caused. The next day I awoke with a dull headache and saw a change in Christine. At once I remembered what had taken place in surprise.

"Oh, Christine," I cried softly, immediately taking her in my arms. She winced slightly but I chose to ignore it. "Please forgive me. I wasn't myself last night. . . I'm so sorry, my love."

The change in her became painstakingly evident - whenever I entered the room while she was singing, she would stop abruptly and turn away from me. She eyed me warily and she no longer made any attempt to be the first to kiss. She would always flinch when I touched her, no matter how gently. Foolishly, I gave her flowers and chocolates and gifts, hoping everything would get better, that everything would be normal.

I had sent one of my most trusted servants out with a large purse and gave him strict instructions. When he returned with the box, I checked it and soon told him that he would receive a raise in his pay. I walked into the room that Christine always sat in and found her sitting on the ground, sewing in front of the fire. She had been humming but stopped herself when she heard my steps. Her eyes watched me with a hidden cautiousness as I sat down beside her.

"I have a surprise for you," I said softly, brushing a curl from her forehead. Smiling, I handed her the box and gestured for her to open it.

"Raoul," she murmured in surprise, carefully lifting the silver necklace from the case. She timidly fingered the diamond pendant, cut into the shape of delicate heart, encircled with gold. "This must have cost a fortune. . ."

I took the necklace from her and fastened it on her neck. I kissed her cheek and hugged her gently, rubbing my cheek into her soft curls. "There is no price too high for you, my love. . ."

The necklace didn't adorn her neck the next day, nor did it any day after.

Nothing would ever be normal - a fact that I tried to ignore at the time. In the back of my mind I knew that, after that night beneath the opera house, our lives would be forever changed. Even though I had my Christine physically, her mind would always belong to her Angel, that genius. To the Phantom of the Opera, a monster.

I should be thankful that I even have Christine at all. Had that monster not all but pushed her towards me, she would have been trapped with him until the day she died. I should have been happy, but, for obvious reasons, I wasn't. What he granted me, what he allowed me to have, is now a lifeless shell; a jaded woman no matter what I did. It pained me to see her look so apathetic. I missed the way her laugh brightened her face, made her beautiful eyes to glitter. I missed the times when her happiness got the best of her, caused her voice to tremble slightly. But I missed the way that her eyes smiled as she watched me the most.

She was Little Lotte - letting her mind wander; thinking of both everything and nothing together. Had that _thing_ left us alone, Christine wouldn't be this indifferent being who brushed everything aside to sing her little songs. Even our wedding did nothing to excite her, when in the past she was ecstatic with our secret engagement. Nothing would be able to strike any sort of spark in in her - all of her passion for anything was gone.

Would the Angel of Music always sing songs in her head?

  
  
  
(**A/N:** A short one this time. . .) 


	6. The Soul Obeys

**A/N:** This chapter is a rewrite of a separate story I uploaded a while ago. The previous story was actually from this story anyway, so don't worry about a change in the plot. I suppose this should answer any E/C questions. . . . For now, anyway. ~_^

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone in this story, although I'd like to. Hmm. . . *gets a net and rope and stalks off*

  
  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

I couldn't stand it, this living lie. I loved Raoul, but how long would it last? Would I really be able to convince myself that Raoul was the better choice? Could I force myself to live as his bride?

No, not for long. I can't keep this up. I can't deceive Raoul any longer. I cannot return his love in full, but would he understand? Obviously the last time I tried this, it didn't work at all to my advantage. How foolish I had been! How foolish I _am!_ I was simply frightened by the love being shown to me by that man with the most beautiful soul I'd ever seen. I was afraid of him, scared of that face that I haven't even seen before in nightmares. Would I be able to look past that horrible visage that even _he_ couldn't bring himself to see?

I walked through the park - a few weeks after Raoul gave me the diamond necklace - the moon casting a romantic light upon the path I took. I wore a full-length white dress with long, loose sleeves. The bodice was midnight blue and had small pearls sewn into the collar. The heels of my shoes clicked on the stone pathway as I went.

I waited patiently, though I know not for what. I looked around expectantly, seeing the grass lit up by moonlight, the trees swaying their branches slowly to a private rhythm.

A sweet voice drifted towards me, carried on a warm breeze that seemed to circle around me before tugging me towards the sound. It pulled me away from the path I walked, onto another leading towards the center of the park. The voice tugged at me and I, like the ship to the siren waiting upon the rocks, willingly let it take me. The voice was so indescribable that even the words "gorgeous" and "pure" cannot even begin to do it justice. Instinctively, I held my breath and quieted my step so as not to disrupt that perfect song. The disembodied voice continued to beckon me, and I walked towards it quickly, almost at a run.

The trail opened up into a large courtyard. In the middle, set in the ground, was a man-made pond so large that it could have been a small lake. The night was crisp, causing the water to leave a soft mist that obscured my vision somewhat. There were red rose bushes as dark as blood along the sides of the stone path encircling the wide pond. Beads of dew glittered on the red petals as I plucked one single thorn-less rose and placed it behind my ear. Wildflowers dotted the grass stretched out beneath the paths and the fountain and beneath everything else. The moonlight reflected off of the water, making it sparkle. It seemed as if someone had thrown millions of diamonds onto a bluish-black velvet drape.

And still the voice beckoned to me, almost pleading, almost demanding. It wasn't until I was a few feet from the fountain that I finally noticed the silhouette of a man at the lip of the small lake. At the moment his back was to me, but as I warily drew walked closer, his tall form turned to face me, his song coming to a wondrous crescendo.

He wore a stark-white shirt that seemed to glow under the moonlight. A crimson vest made of silk he wore over the shirt, and over all of this he donned a black dress coat. He wore black pants, his legs set apart slightly. A dark cape lined with red velvet was draped over his shoulders. His arms were outstretched as we came closer together, all the while still he sang. Every movement he made was graceful, fluid. Both of my hands outstretched, I reached out and held onto his hands gloved in black. With great surprise, I felt him go rigid at my touch, his voice suddenly wavering. But, when I did not flinch away from his cold fingers, as I had before, and he did not shy away from my warmth, he relaxed and let his guard down.

I gently pulled away one of my hands to touch his white porcelain mask, which covered only the right side of his face and was shadowed by the wide-brimmed fedora. When he tilted his head slightly, the mask glowed preternaturally under the moonlight. Soon I was so close that I laid my head on his chest, for he was much taller than I was. We remained that way for a moment and his song never ceased. He gingerly brushed my cheek and timidly placed his hand on my back. I looked up at him, wrapping one arm around his waist.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime," he begged, his glowing gold eyes twinkling like stars. "Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you want me with you, here beside you... Anywhere you go let me go too - Christine that's all I ask of you."

And while he sang this, my hand was once again caressing his mask. His face came closer to mine, so near that I could feel his soft breath on my forehead, his lips brushing my eyelashes. I longed to pull the mask away, the only barrier between us, but I knew he would fly into a violent rage. I was foolish to have done that when I had only really known him for a little while. Both he and I were not ready to take that step again yet.

"Say you love me," he softly pleaded.

"You know I do," I replied, just as quietly. "Love me-"

"That's all I ask of you. . ."

Our lips met as he reached the final word, awkwardly at first, and then more comfortably. I drew closer to him, feeling as if I should melt into him so that we should never be parted. He wrapped both arms around my waist tentatively, and I threw both of mine around his neck. It felt as if time stopped just for us as we held each other, separating only so we could come up for air. Nothing had ever felt so right, so normal. . .

After what felt like both centuries and seconds in his embrace, our lips parted. He stared at me incredulously with eyes lit up by innocent wonder. Using his right hand, he touched my hair and seemed to dote on every single curl. After that moment, I knew I could never love anyone else as much as I loved him.

"You came back," he whispered, barely able to control some emotion that I could not name. "But what about your viscount. . .?"

I shook my head vaguely. "No, I don't love him. I've realized that I only tried to return what he showed me. I loved him only because he loved me. But now, I can't love him any more. . ." I smiled my first true smile in weeks.

"You came back to me. . . I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you hated me. I thought. . . Oh, Christine, don't cry. It hurts me when you cry. . ." He said this so innocently that I let out a sound that seemed like a sob to him and a laugh to me. His long, tapered finger caught my tears as if they were precious stones.

"But Erik," I said, laughing softly, "you're crying too." I wiped the tears from his face as well. We laughed, then, and he buried the unmasked side of his face into my hair while I pressed my cheek into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. I grasped to him more tightly, acting as if he were an apparition that would disappear if I let go.

"I love you," he whispered. He tensed in my embrace, waiting for my answer. I felt his warm tears drop onto my neck. His arms loosened their hold on me as he began to slip away.

Already he had reached an answer. He still didn't understand, did he? I had come back to him, I held him in my arms still! The kiss we had shared still warmed me deeply despite the cold of the night. Couldn't he come to his own conclusion? But then I realized, he himself had hinted at the fact that no one had shown him love, hadn't he? Even his own mother had only showed him fear and hate. My eyes widened slightly as I looked at his face, trying vainly to find the emotion behind that cursed mask of his.

"My poor Erik. . . no one has ever said they loved you. . ." He shook his head reluctantly, trying to turn away from me, but my hold on him was steadfast. "Then listen to me now. I love you, Erik, my Angel. I love you. I just hope that you can forgive me for what I did to you. . . But nothing can part us now. Not ever."

And suddenly his silent tears turned into joyful weeping. I stroked his neck, taking his hat and kissing his forehead. Erik fell to his knees and put his left cheek on my stomach, his arms around my waist still. I slowly overcame my shock at the action. He was always so graceful, so apathetic about everything. And now he had become a child and I, the parent. . . I smiled, then, remembering that Erik used to be the second father to me. I went down on my knees beside him as well, wiping away his tears.

"Don't leave me," he cried, trying desparately to stop his crying. "Forgive me, I forced you through hell and worse. I shouldn't have made you decide. . . Don't ever leave me. I'll die if you do. . ."

"I won't, my love. I won't ever leave again, I promise. . ."

  
  
  
(**A/N:** Reviews much appreciated. . .) 


	7. Waking

**A/N:** Thanks goes to my friends for reading this story and not pointing and laughing; especially my friend Kalena (who's been forcing me to upload about a chapter a day. ~_^).

**Disclaimer:** "The Phantom of the Opera" is not mine, nor has it ever been. I'm not making any money from this, so don't sue. I only have about a dollar in quarters to my name, anyway. . .

  
  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

And, to my dismay and anger, I awoke with a loud groan. I turned onto my side, burying myself deeper into the covers and shutting my eyes tightly. Perhaps if I just concentrated, I could escape back into my dream. Maybe I could find myself in Erik's arms again; maybe I could feel the warmth from his lips. . .

"Oh, Erik," I sighed mournfully.

"What was that?"

That woke me up quickly. I sat up with a start, looking around wildly, willing it to be my Angel. I tried to count the times I'd wished that he was there beside me on the bed, stroking my cheek lightly, his beautiful voice whispering in my ear. I tried to figure out how many times I'd awoken with Erik's name on the tip of my tongue. I thought I could still feel his lips on my forehead, his arms around my waist. But, no, of course not, it never would be like that. . .

"Nothing, nothing. . . Good morning, Raoul," I said sleepily, giving him a half-hearted smile. I stretched my arms as I watched him across the room, preparing something on the table. How long had I been asleep? I wondered vaguely. He was already dressed, and usually I was the first to wake.

"Good morning, my love," he returned, a bright, crooked smile on his face. He came over and placed a tray on my lap. "Did you have a good sleep?"

I nodded mutely, and Raoul kissed my cheek, moving my hair over my shoulder. "Breakfast in bed?" I laughed a little. "Thank you, Raoul. . ."

"Don't mention it, my dearest." He held me tightly, as if I were a dream. His lips touched my forehead and moved down to either of my eyelids. "Now, eat your breakfast, Christine. I wouldn't want you to faint from malnutrition."

He chuckled softly and hugged me once more. He left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. It was only after I had began eating that I had a sudden revelation. I dropped my fork with a clatter and whispered to myself, "Oh God, did Raoul hear me?"

  
  
  
**Raoul:**

It was that hopeful look in her eyes that pained me even more than her hidden disappointment when she saw me. I had awoken when I felt her stir slightly and heard her sighing happily in her sleep. I had closed my eyes again when she whispered, "I love you too, Erik. . ."

I sat up in bed quickly, staring at her as she slept peacefully. Her lips were curved into a perfect smile as she lay there, and my mind started to buzz. All of my questions had been finally answered, and though I had been expecting their affirmation, those answers bore through me like a knife. How could she love him? That monster, that _fiend_! That horrible thing that was willing to kill all those in his way. Perhaps it wasn't true? Many people say things that they don't mean while they dreaming, or so I've heard. . .

But no, I had seen it written on her face, in her every movement, ever since I rescued her from that house on the lake. Christine's heart was no longer mine - just her body. What a fool I had been, thinking I could have her. I knew, when she had taken her bows after her debut, that she was falling for someone else - someone who wasn't _me_. Already jealousy had taken me, though I had only been with her a moment. Women always adored me, always wanted me, and yet I needed to have the woman who didn't want me. The woman who didn't jump at an invitation to dinner. If I had just left her, though, she would have been hurt, would have been trapped in that Opera House for the rest of her days. I was destined to lead her back into the daylight she had been sheltered from. But was that what Christine truly wanted?

She had her daylight now, but she wasn't happy. That's all I had truly wanted of her - to see the joy light up her face. While she stayed with me, she would never be glad. Before, I was content, as long as I could be with her it was all fine. But I could no longer live like that. Christine was a caged dove, and I had kept her from flying. Well, I shall do that no more. I will give her what she wants. I can't stand to see her so miserable - I love her too much to make her suffer here. I want her to be with me out of her own desire. . .

Or because she had to be. . .

  
  
  
(**A/N:** Another short one, I would say. . . review please. . .!) 


	8. An Odd Surprise

**A/N:** Thanks to the reviewers (Elenmir, chicketieboo, Morauko, Midasgirl, AriesSolar, Mirror, Phantomgurl33, operaghostlives, BansheeReader, and Europa). On with the chapter. . .!

**Disclaimer:** Check the first chapter, please.

  
  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

I ate the meal Raoul had given me slowly, my anxiousness growing with every bite. Dressing reluctantly while staring at the mirror indifferently, all I could think about was if he knew, if he could figure out that I loved someone else more. I felt horrible. . . He couldn't know! Raoul trusted me, and I had broken that trust by lying to him. . . The same thing was happening to me all over again, but the roles had been switched. Poor Raoul, I thought. Poor _Erik_. . .

Finally I left the room and found Raoul in the parlor, the back of his chair to me. Standing in the doorway uneasily, I watched the back of his head and said, "Hello, my dear."

He sat for a moment longer and rose stiffly, as if he were being weighed down by the world on his shoulders. His face was drawn, and his usually bright blue eyes were grim. It seemed as if he had gained ten years while I was dawdling in my room. Tentatively, he approached me and held my hand.

"Christine," he said softly, stroking my hair, "you're not happy with me, are you? No - don't answer me with a lie. I know already you're not content here."

"How could you possibly think that?" I replied, trying to hide my true feelings with my all too real astonishment. "If I weren't happy, I'd -"

"Don't lie to me, Christine!" Raoul looked at me, the desparation etched into every inch of his face; suddenly his eyes were sad, almost mournful. . . "Please, my love, tell me the truth. I know you can't stay here and live the perfect, happy life. . . Not the life we had planned so innocently in days before. I can't stand seeing you so sad. I know you don't love me. . ."

"Raoul, I _do_ love you with all my -"

"No. . . no you don't. Not as much as - as you love Erik."

My eyes widened in horrified surprise. So he _did_ know. "Raoul. . ."

"It's obvious, my dearest. It's written all over you that your heart belongs to him. I understand, Christine, I understand. . ." He bowed his head, and I saw his shoulders begin to tremble slightly. "You know I love you, Christine. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, as long as it made you happy. _I love you_. It hurts me to see you so miserable. I just can't stand by and pretend this isn't happening. . . That's why I'm. . . I'm letting you go. . ."

"Letting me go?" I repeated, dazedly. He smiled slightly, placing a kiss on my forehead.

"You've been staying with me because you felt you had to. You're not bound her, love. You're not a prisoner. The one thing I want is for you to be happy. I will have the servants pack some of your things. . . No, don't protest. I know you love him, no matter how much you try to deny it. If you'll be happier with him, then so be it."

"Oh, Raoul. . ."

"But please stay with me one more month and you can leave. Just one month - that's all I ask. One month and you'll be back in the Opera House."

I nodded, not bothering to wipe away my tears. The roles really had be switched, I mused. He gathered me into his arms, and I could feel his shoulders rising and falling as he silenced his own crying. "Thank you, Raoul. . ."

"Don't thank me," he said huskily, the sadness in his voice breaking my heart. "I love you too much to make you suffer. . ."

  
  
True to his word, Raoul got everything read for me, and still he asked nothing in return other than staying with him for that month. I was happier than I had been in ages, I'm afraid to say, and that seemed enough for Raoul.

But I wondered if Erik would take me back so easily, even after all of this. Jealously, I thought that perhaps he had found someone better than me, someone who could love him without a second thought. I wondered if she would have been prettier than me, if she could sing as well as I could. I suppose I was comforted by the fact that Erik was such a recluse and so unused to human contact. I even found solace in that he hated being seen by most everyone, even when he had his hat pulled low over the mask. But still, I began musing over how everything would work out. . . What if my feelings suddenly changed when I finally returned? What if I had simply missed his friendship and not his love? Did he still even love me? What would I do if he no longer wanted me?. . .

"Monsieur Andre has agreed to audition you as their lead soprano's understudy."

"Thank you, Raoul. You're so kind to me. . ."

"As long as it makes you glad. Please promise me that you will try to visit. I'll try to reserve a box again so I can see you after every show."

I hugged him tightly, then, and said, "I can never thank you enough for this. I'll try to come see you. . . but how do I know he'll even take me back?"

His eyes softened and he frowned sadly. I could see sorrow swimming in the deep blue pools of his eyes and felt a lump in my throat. "He would really have to be insane not to. I only fear that he won't let you _go_. . . If _anything_ happens, I want you to come back, all right? _Anything_. I don't want you to get hurt, Christine."

"Yes, Raoul, I promise to try and visit. I hope you can forgive me for leaving. . ."

He caressed my cheek and his lips touched my forehead. "Think nothing of it, my love. Forgive me for keeping you here for so long. . ."

  
  
  
  
(**A/N:** Who else is as surprised as even _I_ am that Raoul did this? ~_^ Reviews much appreciated.) 


	9. A Second Farewell

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay. . . I've been working on my homework. Writing this story is just one of many things that allow me to put off the assignment. ^_~

**Disclaimer:** Read chapter 1.

  
  
  
  
**Raoul:**

We went out to eat the night before Christine was to go, though it felt awkward at first. She thanked me profusely at times, moving the food around her plate with the fork, eyeing me shyly. I drank in her appearance, listened to her voice, trying to remember everything I could of this beautiful woman who sat before me. I watched her sadly, and struggled to keep the tears from falling from my eyes. She smiled brightly in a way she hadn't for weeks and I forced myself to forget that she would be smiling like that for another man very soon. Hate coursed through my veins, and I could nearly feel the Phantom's neck in my fingers. . .

I shook my head to clear it of the sudden bloodlust; I paid for the dinner and rose to my feet, offering my hand to her. "It's getting late," I said, almost plaintively. "Come, you have to be up early tomorrow."

She nodded slowly and accepted my hand, allowing me to lead her out of the restaurant and into the carriage. For the most part, we rode in silence as I sat across from her. I stared outside at the passing scenery distantly, my fingers on my temple. If I didn't look at her, I reasoned, maybe I could forget her. . .

This wasn't to be, of course. She took my hand gently with both her hers, wrapping her fingers around mine with a timid squeeze. I savored the warmth from her touch, locking it away with my other memories. My mind painted a portrait of her to remember for ever - the way her dark curls fell over her shoulders in small waves; the way her eyes glittered under the starlight through the carriage window; the way she seemed to glow from her own hidden light. I showed her a smile then, but secretly my heart broke in two.

When she changed into her nightgown, I tucked her in as if she were a child, kissing her forehead and pulling the covers closer around her shoulders. She sighed contentedly and buried herself in the pillows, murmuring, "Good night, Raoul. . ."

I sat in the parlor, left alone with my thoughts. I didn't sleep that night, for, I knew if I did, all my dreams would be of her. I would hear her voice ringing in my ears, my name on her lips. I would dream of how silky her hair would feel in my hands; how soft her skin beneath my fingertips. I would dream of how her eyes had glittered like small suns. I would dream she was an Angel of the Light, my Little Lotte. . . No - if I slept that night, I would have died of sorrow. . .

  
I waited for her as I moved the food around my plate at breakfast; I didn't have an appetite, and any food I ate fell into my stomach like stones. She walked in gracefully, much like a goddess, the glow of sleep still lingering around her. Christine was dressed already and ate little. There was a bounce in her step that had been absent for extremely long weeks. She giggled softly, though neither of us had said anything. Absently, she hummed a few scales, each ending in a contented sigh. Her smile was ethereal, her eyes glimmering.

I escaped into my study, for lack of anything better to do, and there sat at the desk. It felt as if I remained there for hours, when in reality I was only there for mere minutes, flipping through the pages of a book that I didn't intend to read. The door opened slowly and was shut quietly as I listened to the footsteps draw nearer. I didn't need to look up to know who it was; I tried to appear indifferent, when in fact so many emotions raged through me that I became dizzy.

"Raoul," she said softly, standing in front of the desk with her hands behind her back. I glanced at her quickly to see that her head was bowed shyly in much the same way of a child. When I stood, she raised her eyes and I could see the tears swimming in them. "Raoul. . . I. . . Here."

She held out her palm, and there I saw the diamond necklace and the engagement ring I had given to her. Her hand shook slightly as she batted her eyes to blink away the tears. I stared at the items absently at first and lifted a shaking hand to retrieve them. But rather than take the jewelry, I closed her fingers over her palm.

"No, no. . . I want you to keep them."

"But - but, Raoul, I couldn't possibly. . ."

I silenced her by raising a hand, smiling as warmly as I could. I took her other hand and brushed my lips against her fingers. Pulling her close to me, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and smelled her vanilla-scented hair. "Keep them," I murmured into her ear. "Keep them, so you don't forget that I still love you."

  
I watched her get into the carriage from the front door, forcing away my tears. I waved goodbye to her and she truly smield in return. Oh, how I had missed that smile! She continued to wave goodbye from the carriage window; some of her things had been packed into her valise and the rest would be sent to her flat. Christine pressed her lips to her fingers gently and blew the kiss towards me as the carriage began to move away. With one final wave, I watched her until it disappeared around a corner.

It was an odd feeling. . . I thought I knew what would happen, yet things couldn't always go my way. I couldn't help but feel sad; I had only to wait. After she got there, it would only take a little while for her to realize her contempt for that man and come back. I was so convinced that my plans wouldn't go awry. It would work. . . It had to. . .

"Master," said the servant behind me. "Mademoiselle Daae's things have been packed away. Shall we send them now?"

"Yes, thank you. You are dismissed."

He paused and remained where he was. I turned to face him and asked what he wanted. "Sir," he said finally, "forgive me for my curiousity, but do you think it wise to allow Miss Daae to go?"

I watched him silently for several moments. "No, I don't. That's why I've already arranged for her return."

Baffled, he tilted his head to the side. "Excuse me for asking, sir, but how can you be so certain?"

A laugh escaped me and I walked past him. "She won't be there for long, I should say. No, not for long. . ."

  
  
  
(**A/N:** *insert dramatic music here, here, and. . . yes, there.* Again, I apologize profusely for the delay. Homework, I've deduced, is _not,_ fun.) 


	10. A Short Narration

**A/N:** Any chapters not beginning with the name of the narrator is being told from the third-person POV (or the narrator, who shall henceforth be called "the disembodied voice").

**Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, though I wish it were.

  
  
  
  
It had been roughly three full months since Christine's disappearance from the stage.

Days after he had asked for death, Erik was still tearing the notes from the violin, hidden away in his music room. Nadir stubbornly remained in the home on the lake, cooking Erik meals that wouldn't be eaten and feeding Ayesha; only when he gave Erik his food did the Persian open the door that separated him from the dark music beyond it. At times, Nadir stared at the barrier darkly when it had been pushed open a sliver by the cat. He could never gather enough courage to push open the door and say to Erik. . . he'd say to him. . .

And, of course, Nadir didn't know what he would say. There was nothing _to_ say. What made him think there was? What exactly was there to say to a man who had lost all that mattered to him - the woman he loved, the person who kept him sane. This woman who had meant everything to him and, with her, he lost his will to live. The five years in that horrible prison in Persia was nothing compared to Erik's self-inflicted hell. And though Nadir meant for his actions to be seen in the kindest way, he knew too that they were foolish in the long-run.

Nadir spent his time in Erik's home by leafing through many of the books in his expansive library; or, at times, he would walk through the Opera House to watch rehearsals.

After Carlotta had left, the managers found themselves just barely making any profit. Their new lead soprano, Julia DeVan, through her voice was acceptable, failed to put any passion into the performance. The only thing profitable about her was her pretty face and full figure. The managers despaired without Carlotta and Christine, and, indeed, without the somewhat harsh direction of the presumably dead Opera Ghost. (Though how the "ghost" could die was evidently beyond the ballerinas' gossip.)

And yet, their Opera House remained alive for the time being. Their principal tenor, Monsieur James Emerson, was infuriatingly indifferent about whether the theatre would survive. He, of course, believed he could find work elsewhere should the opera house go under. This was quite true, much to the managers' dismay, for Emerson had an amazing vocal range and was a good actor. The problem with him, though, was that he unfortunately lacked the good looks that were needed for publicity. (Then again, Signor Piangi wasn't exactly the most handsome man either; but, since he was from a foreign nation, he had a very marketable accent.) Along with that, James Emerson falied to do anything worth printing in the newspaper, due mostly to the fact that he was a very dull person.

  
It was soon time to hold auditions anyway, and Firmin and Andre had tried to keep Christine Daae's oncoming try-out a secret. Likewise, the ballet chorus had been talking about it ever since the viscount's letter had arrived on the managers' desk. The Opera Populaire was buzzing with gossip and giggling ballerinas.

"I heard," said a rather energetic dancer, making it up as she went, "that she's leaving the Vicomte de Chagny for another man, and he doesn't even know it! He was so devoted to her, that she was able to actually convince him to let her return to the opera, so she can meet her lover in secret!"

"That poor man!" exclaimed the second dancer, shocked.

"Yes, yes," retorted another girl in a matter-of-factly tone. "Well, _I_ heard that the Vicomte all but threw her out and forced her back to the opera so that he wouldn't have to support her. He had fallen in love with another woman of noble birth and told Miss Daae to pack up and leave!"

"That horrible man!" exclaimed the second dancer, disgusted.

"I wonder if odd things should start happening again," said a fourth darkly.

"What do you mean?" asked the first.

"Well. . . don't you remember all the things that happened when Christine was here? All the times she disappeared to Lord knows where. . ."

The other ballerinas, as if on cue, gasped in understanding.

"What if," said the fourth dancer with grand theatrics, "_the Opera Ghost were to return!_"

The four dancers were silent and giddy with fright. Glancing around cautiously, the tripped down the hall, sharing a celery stick between them. They all screamed enthusiastically when they all heard a loud step behind them and ran off, crying the same thing -

"He's here: The Phantom of the Opera!"


	11. Passing the News

**A/N:** Thanks to my reviewers, once again (gives them red roses). As for the Raoul in this fic - he was supposed to be a _lot_ worse. I, myself, am not a very big fan of our Monsieur de Chagny, but I've decided he's not all bad. After re-reading the ending of Susan Kay's _Phantom_, I do have some sort of respect for him (and his intelligence to boot).

**Disclaimer:** Yes, actually, I _do_ own everyone and everything in The Phantom of the Opera. Especially Erik. He's _**Mine.**_ ^_~

  
  
  
  
**Nadir:**

"Damn," I hissed after the girls had run off. I had stumbled at the mock fear in the dancer's voice as she spoke of the Opera Ghost, so entranced was I in their conversation. It was a wonder the girl wasn't an actor instead of a ballerina. Cursing myself steadily for my clumsiness, I thought over what they were talking about, idly rubbing my palms together. Had I heard correctly?. . .

"Vicomte de Chagny and Daae," I murmured to myself. At least I knew I had heard "Vicomte", and ever since the. . . incident, the man's name was never uttered unless in the same breath as _hers_. I had learned that, though most of what the ballet chorus talked about was pure rubbish, some of it was as close to the truth as one can get in this Opera House - one would just have to sift through the embellishments to reach it. If I could trust their gossip now, then that means that Christine Daae was returning.

That damnable woman only served to complicate things. What was she hoping to do in returning this time? Erik was a wreck - I'd hate to think what would happen to him if he found out that she was under the same roof. It eneded in disaster last time, so would it be the same wa again? He would most certainly find out about her presence one way or another, and I shamefully admit that I was slightly curious as to how he'd react. I suppose that, in feeling that way, that was how I cam to the conclusion that he would learn of her being in the opera house from me. As the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. So I suppose I shall be awaiting it when the time comes. . .

  
I returned to his lair and resolved to walk into his music room before I lost the nerve. I went at it briskly, knocking twice on the door and walking through before waiting for a reply. I felt as if I were a soldier going to war, being pushed along by the rest of the troops - if I turned back now, I'd be seen as a coward and a fool. Confidently I strode into the room and nearly tripped when I found it was dimly lit by a single candle. Though I stood in plain sight, in the circle of illumination cast by the candle, and had his cat hissing at me as if I were a demon, Erik paid me no heed. Instead, he was concentrating his whole mind and body on the keys of his organ, a folder full of blank sheets for music opened on the stand. Though his hands were poised over the keys of the organ, his fingers did not touch them.

Uneasy, I stepped closer and cleared my throat. To both of our surprise, he jumped slightly at the breaking of the silence. In one fluid movement, he capped his red ink, put away his paper, and stood to face me. His eyes were clouded, as if he were daydreaming. He crossed his arms slowly and motioned for me to speak.

"Sorry to bother you," I said unsurely. I was suddenly having second thoughts! Well, it was too late now. . . "But I'm sure you knew of the auditions they're holding for the chorus and to replace Signora Carlotta." He nodded curtly. "Well, the auditions are taking place today. . ." _Damn it,_ I thought hotly, _stop dancing around the subject!_ ". . . and I thought perhaps you'd be interested in watching -"

"What for?" he replied in a sotto voce, sitting back down and idly pressing the organ keys.

"Because - Erik, listen to me and put away those sheets, thank you - because I thought you'd like to know. . . Miss Daae isn't to be replaced."

He stiffened at her name momentarily before moving slightly so as to watch my face. "What are you getting at?" he asked irritably.

"Don't be daft. You know what I'm talking about - Christine Daae is auditioning today."

He went completely rigid at that pointing, turning away. At one moment, he was as still ass death; then he was clenching his fists on top of the organ; and finally he was shaking like a birch leaf. "Why the hell did you tell me this?" he whispered with his head bowed.

"You'd find out eventually, and you know it."

Erik's whole body was suddenly shaking slightly from some subdued emotion. "Damn it," he murmured suddenly. "Damn it, Daroga, why did you have to tell me _this_? I didn't need to know, I wouldn't have known! I never planned to go back up _there_ ever again!" There was a clash of notes as his fist slammed down on the keys, rising in a haunting crescendo. "I never wanted to leave this place," he whispered, his voice trembling with unchecked misery. "I didn't need to know she was returning, Nadir! I wouldn't have found out otherwise. . . Damn it. . . Turn away. . . don't look at me. . ."

I did as he commanded, and I could hear the soft murmur of the silk ribbons that held his mask on his head being untied. A soft sob escaped him, barely audible, and for a few moments, I stood waiting for him to let him express his now-unrestrained emotions.

"When do auditions begin?" he inquired softly and there was the almost silent sound of the ribbons being deftly tied into place.

"In a couple of hours. What is it you're going to do. . .?"

He let out an unsteady breath as he rose, and his face was wiped of emotion. "I have to see her," he mumbled. "I have to see her - no, I _need_ to see her - even if it kills me. . ."

I followed him as he exited the room, amazed at the transformation. For the moment, he was as close to the Erik I once knew than he had been in a long while. He walked into his bedroom and draped his silk-lined cape around his shoulders. Quickly, in his childish handwriting, he wrote a note in his trademark red ink and left it to dry. He picked up a fedora as well, pulling the wide brim low so as to obscure his face, already hidden by a mask that left only his mouth uncovered. (I suppose he had switched his masks while hidden away with his music, though how he had acquired it from his bedroom without my knowing would remain a mystery.) Ayesha purred joyfully as Erik stroked her back. The shadow of a smile played on his lips as his mind seemed to be elsewhere, playing the better memories of his life. Meticulously he folded the note into an envelope and made his way to the lakeside entrance.

"What is that you're planning to do?" I asked briskly, following after him once again.

"I only wish to watch the auditions," he said solemnly. Suddenly his happiness was evident as he added dryly, "I swear upon my heart and soul that there shall be no croaking toads, nor any falling chandeliers. . ."

"And what do you say to abductions?"

His cheerfullness faded and he was serious again. Looking me in the eye, he said softly, with as much gentleness as he could muster, "I'm not an idiot, my friend. I shan't do anything as foolish as that again, so long as your or I can help it. But to ensure that I do not completely lose my sanity, you may want to notify Miss Daae -" his voice wavered slightly at the name "- of my presence today. She should know where I am."

When I nodded, he opened the door and allowed me to walk through. I got into the boat quickly, but not before he said, "And thank you, Nadir, for telling me. . ." 


	12. Another Short Narration

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1, if you would like.

  
  
  
  
"Cursed ballerinas," Andre muttered good-naturedly. He, of course, was referring to how they had somehow found out about Mlle Christine Daae's audition and were now spreading it throughout the opera house. Though he was a bit worried that Miss Daae would be returning to many extravagant rumors about her relationship with the Vicomte de Chagny, he was glad that she was even returning at all.

"This Opera House shall be saved after all!" he said, almost ecstatic at the thought of all the money soon to come rolling in. And it was in that mood that he entered his office to find his partner, M Firmin, pale-faced and slumped down in a chair at the desk.

"Richard!" he exclaimed, all thoughts of money retreating to the back of his mind to be recalled later. "My friend, are you ill?"

With seemingly a great effort, M Firmin gestured to a note on the desk. "Read it," he said hoarsely as he put his head in his hands. Andre snatched it up, casting a worried glance at his partner before looking at the note in a familiar labored handwriting and red ink. . .

He gasped in dismay as the letter drifted to the floor. "You can't be serious," he whispered. "He _can't_ be back! He's dead! Gone!" Richard shuddered but never looked up. Andre picked up the note again and read it aloud:

_Greetings to my managers,_

It appears that it has been a long while since last we had conversed. Perhaps you thought I was dead? Oh, but of course not, for how could a ghost die when he's already deceased? I assure you that I still very much exist, though I've made my presence less known. And so, I have returned to you.

Let us get a few things settled. I am quite aware of your current affairs, so I shall be brief. You haven't paid my salary for three months, gentlemen, so I shall be expecting sixty-thousand francs in addition to the twenty-thousand for this month. Also, I shall expect Box Five to be kept empty for my own use. Please remember, my dear sirs, what happened last time my commands were ignored. . . Or, somehow, had you forgotten?

Your most humble and obedient servant,

- O.G.

  
Horrified, Andre raised his eyes heaven-wards, crumpling the note and casting it to the floor as if it were to burst into flame. Instinctively, his hand flew to his chest as if to rest his pounding heart. "Good Lord!" he cried. "We're barely making money as it is! And wants us to empty-out Box Five, as well as _sixty-thousand fra_-"

"Eighty-thousand," corrected Richard, his voice weary as he seemed to age ten years. "Sixty-thousand, plus twenty-thousand for this month."

"What will we do?" Andre asked woefully, rubbing his forehead. "We can't afford to meet his demands, yet if we don't. . ."

"Another croaking soprano," finished the other. "And money spent to buy another chandelier - money which we can't even afford to spend in the first place."

Richard shook his head ruefully, his temples throbbing. "It seems that we have no choice but to follow his orders. . . Perhaps we can make more money with the viscount contributing and with Mlle Daae's voice. . ."

"Yes, yes, Miss Daae's voice. But have you forgotten that she only wishes to be in the chorus, and understudy at best? Andre sighed and plopped down in a chair opposite his partner's. "We are still stuck with Mlle Julia." He chucked nervously then, while looking about the office. "Unless our good Phantom takes care of Miss DeVan, we still have to figure out how to persuade Miss Daae into the spotlight."

"We'll figure it out later," replied M Firmin, rising with great reluctance. "For now, we shall concentrate on our auditioners." 


	13. An Audition

**Disclaimer:** If I owned PotO, then this would be in the Original section, wouldn't it? ~-^

**Author's Note:** In reply to Christine Persephone - yes, that was a bit from Terry Pratchett's _Maskerade_. I always liked how he described the corps de ballet, so I decided I'd do a sort of homage.

**Edit:** Erk. . . sorry, I made a mistake in the coding. My most humble apologies; it's been fixed.   
  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

Half-heartedly, I twisted the sheet music into a tube to keep my hands from shaking. I questioned my choice of song nervously, ignoring the stares I received from the giggling ballet girls. Obviously, my arrival was not the jealously-guarded secret I had hoped it would be. The young tenor on stage missed his note, his voice cracking as he forgot the lyrics. Anxiously I shifted my weight to the other leg as I looked over my music one more time.

"Greetings, Mlle Daae," said a heavily accented voice behind me, causing me to jump. "Sorry to frighten you; it wasn't my intention."

I was staring into a familiar face, drinking in his features - especially the eyes which seemed to bore holes into my flesh. I recognized the voice after a moment and said shakily, "Nadir?"

"Indeed," he replied. He raised an eyebrow as he glanced over my music. "Interesting song selection. Have you someone to sing the male part?" I shook my head slowly and he sighed. "Perhaps," he said sagely, "I have found a partner for you. . ."

"You have?" I asked hopefully, trying to hide the frightened excitement in my voice. "Where is he. . .?"

Nadir sighed again and I squirmed slightly under his hard gaze. "He told me that you know already where he will be," he said sharply, his expression harsh. "I only hope that history won't repeat itself again?"

Dumbly I shook my head, trying to hold his eyes with my own. I stared at him quizzically, trying to get him to elaborate more, but he only sighed a third time. Before I could say anything else to him, a wavering voice broke our concentration.

"Miss Christine Daae!"

I cast Nadir one last glance, trying to make it as sincere as possible, before making my way on stage. I handed my music to Monsieur Reyer, who was playing the piano, and he stared at me in shock. Rubbing his forehead briefly, he gave a curt nod and set the music on the piano stand. Flashing him a smile, I faced my only visible audience - MM Andre and Firmin.

"I see you've returned, Miss Daae," said Andre flatly, and I tilted my head slightly.

"Welcome back," said Firmin, in the same tone as Andre. He seemed exhausted, and I had presumed it was because he had to listen to and watch so many young hopefuls parade around the stage like hens.

Andre, after a moment, broke the nervous silence by asking, "What is it you will be performing for us?"

"It is a duet -"

"A duet?" Firmin echoed dubiously. "A duet? But where is your partner?"

"I imagine he shall be here in a little while," I answered, watching Box 5 out of the corner of my eye and willing him to be there. "Well, the song has been re-arranged, but it is a duet titled, 'The Point of No Return,' from the opera, 'Don Juan Triumphant'."

  
  
**Erik:**

It was a bit depressing, having to watch all these young men and women dance and sing and basically make fools of themselves. Now, there were a few who stood out among the rest and perhaps, with a great deal of training, could come out among the top. I slumped down a little in my seat, feeling a great deal more content than I had in months.

Then _she_ walked onto the stage, and there was a dull ache in my chest as I stared down at her; I averted my eyes to something even worse - the plain gold wedding band in my hand, which I had given to her so long ago. I felt a lump in my throat when I had noticed that there wasn't a ring on her finger. . .

_A duet?_ I repeated silently along with Firmin. I had noticed early on that the two fools were jittery, and I suppose it did not help when I had threw my voice down to them in good spirits. I didn't say anything threatening - I just moaned and groaned. . . like a ghost.

Leaning forward in my box, not caring if anyone else saw me, I watched her in the center of the stage. My angel, my beautiful angel! No mere memory can truly capture your perfection! I reached out a hand as if to touch her cheek, as if to calm the nervous girl. Her eyes flicked over in my direction as she said, "I imagine he shall be here in a little while," and I realized her intentions. _Clever child!_ I thought as I gripped the railing. _What is it you're planning?_

And I nearly laughed aloud when I heard the song's title. The managers went completely rigid and I imagined seeing them pale greatly. I noticed that M Reyer had kept his composer. (I've always had a slight respect for the man, who seemed to dislike Carlotta as much as I did.) "W-when you're ready," stammered Firmin, while Andre wiped sweat from his brow.

Christine cast one quick glance to my box and cleared her throat softly. She nodded to Reyer and he played two measures introduction to set the tempo.

Suddenly her throat filled with the music as she sang the lyrics perfectly, and my heart melted; it seemed as if I were floating with the music, being washed away with the notes. I had forgotten, as well, how perfect her voice had been, how completely pure it was. I noticed numbly that she herself had changed the song so that it was Aminta's part that would go first. As she reached -

"_Past the point  
of no return,  
the final threshold -  
what warm  
unspoken secrets  
will we learn?  
Beyond the point  
of no return. . ._"

- she stopped and watched the shadows of my box expectantly. Quickly I took my cue and threw my voice down to the stage. With the first line, her face lit up wonderfully. . .

I was completely lost while I drowned in the euphoria that the song caused. The words fell from my lips without my knowing it; I saw her smile widen when our voices twined together as we came to -

"_Past the point  
of no return,  
the final threshold -  
the bridge  
is crossed, so stand  
and watch it burn. . .  
We've passed the point  
of no return. . ._"

- and suddenly the music ended. As if hypnotized, Christine snapped out of the trance she had gone into. She, unknowingly, had been edging towards my box and was now moving down the stage towards the managers. A brilliant smile was on her lips as she stepped to the edge of the stage and stood before the horrified and amazed managers. It felt as if hours passed when they said nothing and I impatiently waited to hear their comments.

"Erm. . . th-thank you, Miss Daae," came Andre's nervous stutter. He and Firmin exchanged glances and nodded slightly. "We would like for you to return to the opera house as soon as possible." Firmin was staring at the box I was in as his partner went on, "Of course, you will have to look over a contract, so we would like for you to come to our office at six o'clock today."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Christine replied, almost coyly. "May I ask a favor?-" they consented "-Well. . . I was just wondering if I could have my old dressing room."

"That small one. . .? But we're willing to provide you with a much larger one -"

"Thank you, sir, but I would much rather have my old one. I hope this doesn't pose a problem?"

"No, no, not at all. You may have it now, if you wish. . ."

"Thank you very much, messieurs."

And with that, she retrieved her music and walked off towards her dressing room; as quickly as I could, I left the auditorium and silently followed her in the hidden passageways.

  
  
  
(**A/N:** The song used was from the ALW version of PotO. In my rough draft, I had the whole song written out, in which Christine started out with Aminta's part, and ended with the last stanza/paragraph [umm?] of Don Juan's part; and Erik sang Don Juan's part, and Christine joined him for the last part. Just thought you'd like to know. Review much appreciated.) 


	14. Crimson Rose

**A/N:** On a note completely separate from this 'fic, has anyone ever heard the Me First and the Gimme Gimmes' cover of "The Phantom of the Opera"? It's actually pretty okay; I suggest looking for and listening to it if you get bored.

**Disclaimer:** I really do wish that I owned PotO; then I could actually _have_ money to even further my obsession, in addition to actually _owning_ the characters. ^_^

  
  
  
  
**Christine:**

He was there! Thank heavens, _he was there!_ Oh, when his beautiful voice appeared beside me, I was flung into frightened ecstacy - a feeling that had long escaped me. Relief and joy flooded over me in waves as he sang; his mellifluous voice seeming to fill my mind. And when I looked, I saw the familiar flash of white in Box Five. It all felt so _right_, that I had nearly forgotten that MM Andre and Firmin, as well as M Reyer, were even there. All that mattered was myself, the music, and that white mask. . .

I headed towards my old dressing room, straining my ears for the sound of footfalls or the familiar rustle of a cape. When I reached the door uneventfully, I was worried that he would not come. At first, I was terrified at the thought of Erik being dead, which I overheard while the ballet-girls gossiped. My heart skipped a beat and I had to brace myself on the wall for fear of falling. But somehow I knew that my fears were unfounded, and I continued to make my way backstage to the wings.

I flung myself into the room and fell into the chair near the vanity. I hadn't realized I was so exhausted until the moment I opened the door. Suddenly I saw something dark move quickly in the vanity mirror and I froze instinctively. I turned to face the middle of the room - but there was nothing there. I bit my lip and blamed my imagination, but I can't say that my hopes hadn't been dashed a little. . .

I hummed to myself softly, going through the drawers and noticing that all the things in there were mine. . . I was a bit shocked and I gasped a bit when I found a picture of my father on the table. It was small, so I failed to notice it when I first came in. Soon I found the old diary that I had left when I ran off with Raoul and I began to thumb through the pages, a bit of nostalgia coming over me. I looked around again and saw the divan that I had set up as a make-shift bed for when I stayed over night; when Erik had given me the gold wedding band and my liberty.

Upon the divan was a single long-stemmed crimson rose. I remembered the story of the nightingale fondly, but with a twinge of sadness. How daft I had been to not recognize the love being offered to me! I knew what it was that Erik had been hinting at, and yet I could not fully understand the depth of it.

Someone was humming with me. I only heard it after I had recounted the story of the red rose in my mind, holding the flower in my hands as if it would shatter at any false movement. Reverently, I placed it on the vanity table and watched the mirror intently. It seemed to ripple a little, like a calm lake upset by the falling of a leaf, and I let myself imagine that a white mask was visible through it. Within the next second there was an icy blast that smelt slightly of water and a man appeared to walk through the mirror as if by magic.

We stood staring at one another for what seemed like centuries, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his fedora. His golden eyes seemed to glow preternaturally in the darkness cast by the hat, emotionless and apathetic. He broke my concentration by bowing low with a swirl of his cape, draping the cloth over his outstreched arm. I couldn't tell if the graceful gesture was sincere or sarcastic.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he said softly, "or should I say 'Vicomtesse de Chagny'? To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my opera house?"

His melodic voice mesmerized me for a second as he tried to contain the acid of his words. Though his movements were fluid and elegant as he rose and came further into the room, they seemed a bit more forced than last I had remembered. He sat on the edge of the vanity beside the rose, throwing his cape over his shoulder. He crossed his arms and glared at me from under his hat, waiting for an answer that I didn't have. What was I supposed to say? _Sorry, Erik, for doing all of those horrible things to you. But now Raoul is boring me, so take me back_?

"Perhaps," he continued caustically, "you, out of pity, decided to find out how your poor Erik was faring? Or, perhaps you and your viscount have decided lay another trap to once and for all destroy the Beast upon the Lake? Or, even better," he stood at this point, seeming to grow taller as his anger flared; he hissed, "perhaps you'd like to rip to shreds what remains of my heart and mind!"

I sat heavily on the divan as a laugh devoid of any mirth escaped his lips. "Erik. . ." I whimpered, frightened beyond words.

"Well, mademoiselle? What is your answer? Have you decided to toy with your little pathetic dog? Did you want to see if your faithful little mutt would come back to you? Well, Christine? _What is your answer?_"

It felt as if he were towering over me, though he was on the other side of the room. I realized abruptly the truth in his words. After all I had done to him, did I truly expect for him to accept me back into his life when I bade him? The poor man! All the torture I forced him to endure, the hell I made him walk through. . . He had his back to me, his hands steepled on the vanity table; his shoulders rose and fell while he tried to control his fury. I saw the sadness in his eyes through the mirror that he avoided looking into. I saw the rage dancing like flames, leaping and crackling while it burned in his soul. And I saw that self-loathing in him when I understood that his silence was because he had regretted what he had said. . .

In spite of myself, I began to cry; softly at first, trying to hold it back, but soon the sobs sent tremors down my back. Erik spun around quickly and there too were tears in his eyes that threatened to fall. Instantly he threw himself to his knees before me, his fedora falling to the ground. I finally had a clear view of his pristine white mask that covered his face, yet I couldn't see it for the tears blurring my vision.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his sorrowful voice sending chills down my spine. His composure crumbled, leaving him trembling and prostrated at my feet. I had stopped crying enough to see him weeping as well, his body shaking as his gloved hand ventured to wipe away my tears. "I didn't mean what I said - please stop crying," he sobbed. "It hurts me so much when you cry. . . I didn't mean to lose myself like that. . . I. . . I just. . ."

He was about to touch my cheek, but something came over him; he forcefully put his trembling hand down, stiffly rising to his feet. Hastily, without his usual feline grace, he lurched to the mirror and pushed the spring that would open it.

Before he retreated through the passage, I heard him say, "Forgive me. . ."


	15. What Sweet Seduction

**A/N:** *comes in wearing a party hat* Happy B-day to me. . .! Today (on August 14th) I am officially 14. ^-^!! How interesting is it that I'm the same age as the day I was born?

**Disclaimer:** If you haven't figured it out already, then you, my friend, are not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  
  
  
  
**Erik:**

What the hell had I done? I knew I shouldn't have gone to see her! Christine only succeeded in bringing out the worst in me - and that is saying a great deal. Any shadow of affection she might have had for me was now surely erased due to my outburst. I'm such a fool. . . Why did I have to show myself to her in the first place? I could have remained her Angel of Music forever, and she would have stayed with me without any doubts; without my knowing, my downfall was set once I let her see me in person. . .

I leaned against the mirror, watching her through it despite myself. She was sitting almost rigidly, seeming to be a weeping statue whose only imperfection were the tears running down her cheeks. I stood mutely with her, gazing into the now-lifeless eyes that stared at the mirror. I couldn't tell if she was staring at it in surprise or shock; sadness or horror; disgust or loathing. . .

I was slowly suffocating behind my mask, trying to ignore my burning lungs for as long as possible. But, unfortunately, the decidedly mortal action of breathing took over. I was forced to pull my mask up for a bit, not caring if she could vaguely see me through the mirror between us. I watched her for a few more moments with an abrupt longing to touch her face, to hold her hand. But the cold air on my naked cheek reminded me that she would never be able to see past my hideous visage. I bit my lower lip to hold back a sob before replacing my mask and dragging my wretched self away.

  
  
Ayesha greeted me with her customary mewl and Nadir was nowhere in sight, fortunately. I walked with labored steps into my music room and dropped in front of the organ to lose myself in the melody. I had long given up morphine simply because I didn't care to buy it; I needed to have a new way of punishing myself further, but long before I became dependent on this narcotic, I had already given myself to another. Music was the only drug I needed, intoxicating me with its elating and powerful euphony. The notes found me well, the events of just minutes ago having filled me with that bittersweet inspiration. I realized that she always seemed to motivate me to write. I poured myself into the music, heedless of my surroundings, dropping my guard completely.

I stopped my playing for an instant to copy down the notes onto the paper; I sensed someone entering the room and my muscles tensed instinctively. Whirling around, my arm lashed out and reached for the neck of my intruder. He cried out in surprise and I stopped myself abruptly, my fingers touching his throat. Nadir gasped quietly, but I ignored him and began to work on my music again. I sensed him take a small step back before he began his interrogation.

"What happened?" His attempt at a commanding voice was laughable and I smirked. "_What did you do?_"

"Same as always," I answered, my voice gushing with sarcasm. "Reduced myself to an idiotic fool in front of her." Taking a deep breath, I pressed the organ keys idly and continued softly, "I lost control. . . I always seem to, don't I? When I'm around her. . . I used to wonder if she enjoyed tormenting like she does. . ."

"I knew I shouldn't have told you."

I went on, choosing to ignore him again, talking to myself, "But the passion in her voice while she stood in the middle of that stage!. . . The look in her eyes when I began to sing with her!. . . It felt as if. . . as if she truly were singing _to_ me, instead of just reciting meaningless words. I thought I could control myself - I thought I could keep my emotions in check. I needed to see her up close. . ." I shivered as I struggled to keep my feelings reined, a cold chill inching down my spine.

"She sang my song. . . the one I've always wanted her to sing for me. . . It was perfect - not a single flaw. And, either she's become a very good actress, or - or - I can't explain it, but whatever it was, it felt _real_."

He only nodded sagely, which annoyed me to no end, but I chose to overlook his actions once more. It lately seemed as if the music eluded me while he was in my presence; it was as if the notes refused to be heard by anyone but me. I continued pushing random keys and finding a slight comfort in their sound. His eyes were on my back, watching me silently. All that I thought of, during that time, was her face that - even when crying - had the perfect innocence of an angel; of how her dark curls fell in waves over her shoulders. The purity of her exquisite voice was the one memory that both filled me with pain and joy, leaving me numb. During the months alone with my music and thoughts, I could only think of her - my goddess and savior. . .

A sigh escaped me and my hands rested on top of the keys. Slowly I stood and turned to see a grim-faced Nadir. He slowly shook his head, eyes closed, and said in a serious and lecturing tone, "I knew you shouldn't have gone. She has a hold of a rather crucial part of you, and she's _always_ twisting it -"

"So what are you saying?" My voice was dripping with a venom that I did not try to contain. "Should I never see her again? Never see the only person who keeps me _sane_? You don't understand, Nadir. If it weren't for her, I would have died by my own hands long ago -"

"And if it weren't for her," he retorted, not at all disturbed by my demeanor, "you wouldn't wish to die by someone _else's_ hands."

At that moment I could no longer control all of the emotions whirling around my soul. Evidently Nadir could see the anger and frustration in my eyes. He began to back away again, trying to put a good deal of space between us. A smirk found itself on my lips as I drew myself to full height. As I stepped closer, he took another back, visibly intimidated, but trying to make it seem he was all right. _A lot of good that would do_, I thought grimly, _if he's trying to stand his ground while retreating at the same time!_

"Death is death either way," I heard myself telling him acerbically. "Whether it's suicide or murder, the end result is always the same, isn't it? Perhaps everyone would be happier if the Opera Ghost finally _did_ join the ranks of the deceased and leave the world alone!"

Nadir gulped unconsciously, though his eyes never left mine. Watching him shiver a little and taking a sardonic pleasure in it, I folded my arms across my chest to stare him down. "Sometimes," I hissed, "I fear that you will find that my patience with you has grown short. You've meddled in my affairs for far too long. Did you think that by saving me, I'd let you control me as well? Do what you will - tell the authorities; finish me off here. . . take Christine away from me. . ."

My voice cracked and my throat suddenly became dry. Nadir was shocked, to say the least, and he shook his head incredulously. He had heard all of this from me before, but I suppose he was not ready for it this time around. I was not in the mood to wait for him to regain his composure; instead I swept past him into the outer room. Sitting heavily in my black wing chair, I thought about what to do next. For the first time in months, I actually needed to muse over my next move, as if I were playing a game of chess. I actually had a choice. . . There was something that wanted my attention. I finally had something that called me away from the darkness I brooded in. . .

"Don't do something foolish Erik," Nadir said warningly, pulling me out of my trance. His shaking hands belied the grimness of his voice. "You have to let her live her own life. You made a decision - you have to stay with it."

"I had no other choice," I snapped, watching detachedly while Ayesha paraded around infront of me, making a show of hissing at Nadir and purring for me. "But now she's come back. . . she's returned. . ."

"Yes, but we don't know _why_. What if she's with the Vicomte?"

I flinched. Amidst all of my conflicting feelings, I had somehow forgotten about that wretched boy, though I don't know how I could. The dandy only seemed to bring more questions whose answers could only be gotten from one person. The more I wanted those answers, though, the more I dreaded asking for them. Whenever I was with her, she stirred some primitive passion in me that I both hated and enjoyed.

"Wait - where are you going?"

I paused a moment to tie my cloak around my shoulders - I had apparently misplaced my hat and I did not quite feel like finding my other. "To go do what ghosts do best," I replied simply with a dismissive shrug. With that, I left him, taking one of the many entrances into the "upper world" that Nadir did not know of. 


	16. Angel of Music

**EDIT:** I added another section/scene to the end because it was so short, and I didn't want to make a different chapter. 

**A/N:** Thanks for all of the happy birthdays. I had a good one; my mom got me a very pretty rose. () I like that smilie. I didn't know it was Sarah Brightman's b-day too. What a coincidence!. . . Anyways, thanks once again to my reviewers gives them sweets

**Disclaimer:** It's still not mine, really, I swear. Maybe if I'm a good girl, Santa will give it to me for Christmas. /wishful thinking

**Christine:**

"Yes, just sign here and - yes, there."

I returned the pen to M Andre and forced a smile to M Firmin. They seemed awfully jittery, constantly flinching at the loud _bang_ of Mme Giry's cane, which could echo through almost the entire Opera House if she slammed it hard enough. Looking around, I found that nothing about their office had changed, except that they had more papers on their desk than usual. One note written in red ink caught my eye, in particular. When the managers were distracted with filing the contract away and talking to eachother, I cautiously took the note. I glanced over it, savoring for the short moment the smell of sandalwood. Instantly I had recognized the hand-writing and the signature confirmed my suspicions. Sadly laughing silently to myself, I replaced the letter on the desk and waited for the two men's attention.

"Now, Mlle Daae," Firmin said with utmost formality, wiping sweat from his brow, "last time you were here we had a few. . . a few. . ."

". . . Complications."

"Complications, exactly, thank you, Andre. There were some complications, Miss Daae. How will we know that there won't be anymore. . . problems?"

Sighing inwardly, I retained my bright, almost inane, smile. This was the first question I had expected and the last I wanted to answer. "Gentlemen," I said sweetly, "I assure you, there won't be any more 'complications'. I simply won't allow it."

"But should be in the middle of a production -"

"Are you worried about Mlle DeVan becoming a toad?" As much as I'm ashamed to admit it, I had always found that trick on Carlotta extremely entertaining. . . "You have nothing to worry about, sirs."

They both exchanged glances and Andre said, "We were thinking more along the lines of. . . disappearances."

He let the words hang in the air and I nodded slowly. Already I was making promises I couldn't know if I would keep; I had no idea if all this even had the chance of happening again. "Don't worry, messieurs. It won't happen again."

For the moment, they seemed mollified. Visibly relazing, they shook my hand with quivering smiles and gave me leave.

Opening the door cautiously, I anxiously looked around. To my disappointment and relief, nothing had changed during the time I was away. I closed the door softly and laid down on the divan. There was a dull ache in my head which presented itself while I was in the managers' office. shutting my eyes, I rubbed my temples in slow circles. It seemed that tese headaches were only inflicted by those two nervous men. . . and perhaps, most of the ballet chorus.

There was a loud insistent knocking at the door that I immediately recognized. I called her in and sure enough, in came Meg Giry with a grin on her face. I returned the smile (I was beginning to feel that if I smiled anymore that day my cheeks would crack) and sat up.

"Oh, Christine!" she cried giddily. "I've missed you so much! Where did you go?"

She threw her arms around me and I hugged her back. We laughed happily and she literally bounced up and down with a dancer's grace. "I missed you too," I replied truthfully.

"What's become of the Vicomte? He was _very_ handsome."

"Yes, he is," I said with a sigh. She down beside me and twirled a strand of hair in her fingers. Meg was dressed in her black leotard and white stockings, ballet shoes on her feet. Most of her curly brown hair was tied in a bun at her neck, with exception of a few loose strands. "I hear he's still a patron. . . But, Meg!, shouldn't you be practicing?"

"Oh! Well, yes, but I just had to come and see you. Is it true that they just signed you on as Mlle Julia's understudy?" I nodded. "Oh Christine! That's wonderful! The Opera has quite honestly been horrible ever since you left. Mlle Julia thinks she's another Carlotta, rest her soul -"

"'Rest her soul'? What do you mean?" Meg's hand suddenly flew to her mouth as a look of shock flew across her face. "What do you mean, Meg?" I repeated firmly. "What happened to Carlotta?" "You don't know?" she asked in a hushed tone. I shook my head slowly and she took a deep breath. "Oh, I thought you knew. . . Carlotta committed suicide, Christine."

And then it was my turn to be shocked. I stared at her in a daze and was vaguely aware that I was wringing my hands together. _Suicide?_ I mused silently. _Carlotta is. . . dead?_

"After Signor Piangi was killed," she continued, her ballerina instinct taking over for a moment, "Carlotta was never the same. For weeks she refused to sing, let alone speak. And then Monsieur Andre went into her dressing room and found her dead. She had hanged herself and left a short note; the managers never let anyone know what the letter said, but a lot of the ballet chorus like to make things up."

After a brief silence, I whispered, "That's horrible. Poor Carlotta, may she rest in peace. . ." It was true that I disliked the woman, but never would I wish death upon someone.

Subdued, Meg said, "Julia is going to be furious, I think, when she finds out about you. I truly want to see her reaction!" As she giggled, there was a sudden and familiar bang; both Meg and I instantly sprang to our feet. Standing in the doorway was Madame Giry dressed in her usual severe black dress, her large cane in hand. Her eyes were on Meg, a look of what appeared to be fond annoyance on her face. "Meg Giry - avoiding lessons again, I see. Well, I want you to go practice your pirouettes; your balance has been off on your left leg as of late."

Meg scampered off past her mother. Madame Giry showed me a rare smile and said, "Welcome back, my dear," before leaving herself and closing the door.

I sank back down onto the divan, shutting my eyes tightly and rubbing my temples. I had chosen to ignore the dull throb in my head while I talked to Meg; the ache worsened and forced any and all thoughts from my mind; the only thing I could concentrate on was the pounding and silently screaming at the ballerinas to stop their insanely loud chattering. Vaguely, I considered throwing a shoe at them. _Or better yet_, I thought bitterly, _an apple. Maybe then they'll finally eat something!_

They all squealed simultaneously and I listened to the soft pattering (which seemed like loud banging) as they ran down the hall, away from my room. Groaning softly, I turned onto my side, only to jump in surprise. This, of course, only worsened my headache and caused a sudden wave of nausea. I battled it down as I stared at him in bewilderment. He was standing in front of the mirror that covered the far wall, and seemed to be as amazed at his presence in my room as I was. His head was bowed, obviously trying to keep as far from me as he could. For once, it was _Erik_ that stood there shifting uncomfortably! I would have laughed at the irony if it weren't for the pounding in my skull.

"You're ill," he said softly, taking a tentative step closer. His eyes were downcast, seeming to keep his gaze away from me. He was about to take another step towards the divan when he abruptly faltered and retreated back. "I'm sorry to come in without your consent. . ."

The trembling in his voice was evident and confused us both. Last time he had come in such a sudden blaze of fury. Now he was all but sheepish! Why did he come back?. . .

"Did you say something?"

I had unknowingly voice my thoughts, albeit softly, but he always did have great hearing. . .

He was waiting for me to say something, his golden orbs gazing at me gently. I realized that I wanted him to stay, and that, if I didn't say something, he would leave. "Please," I croaked softly, gesturing to the chair near the vanity.

He must have seen me wincing, for he turned down the gas lamps so that only a low glow filled the room. Hesitating in much the same way as a child would, he took the chair and pulled it nearer to the divan. "May I?" Erik whispered, brushing his hand against my forehead. I made a sound quietly and dropped my arms. Soon his cool fingeres were on my temples; a soft sigh left my lips as I closed my eyes. I imagined that I could feel the warmth of his lithe body so close to mine. . .

"Erik. . ."

He paused, brushing a lock of my hair away from my eyes. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, and all of my thoughts tried to force themselves through my mouth. Impusively I reached up to touch the glassy mask on his face but he quickly flinched away, catching my wrist. The hand that held mine was shaking, as if he were trying to get a grasp on his instincts. Slowly I sat-up, noticing that my headache had dissolved beneath his fingertips. He released me and turned to leave. As quickly as I dared, I took his hand and held it with both of mine, feeling him go rigid.

"Don't go," I implored. He let out a shivering sigh that was barely audible and he pulled away with a jerk, retreating to the mirror. He placed both hands on it, his long fingers spread apart. His breath was just barely grazing it, but the mirror's surface rippled. I came up behind him and touched his shoulder, causing him to stiffen and then barely shudder. With the greatest reluctance, he turned to face me and daringly took my small hand. He breathed slowly as his golden eyes stared at me in a shadow of pained confusion.

We remained like that a minute longer and I pulled him back into the room, gently pushing him onto the divan. I went to the small dresser, looking through the drawers hurriedly. Finding it, I sat in the chair across from him, scooting it back so as not to make him uncomfortable. "You. . . you left this; from before." And I held out to him his black fedora, which he took back with a feeble hand. He seemed to avoid my gaze, so I contented myself by staring at my lap.

"Christine, I. . . I'm sorry. . . I apologize for frightening you earlier. . ."

"It's all right, I forgive you," I murmured, nodding my head absently. "May I. . . ask you something?" When I consented, I nibbled my lower lip for an instant and plunged into the question, "Erik, could you tutor me again? Of course, if you don't want to -"

He silently cut me off, staring at me almost blankly. His eyes contained a look of confusion. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to guess what he'd say as I played with a fold in my skirt.

"If you wish," he said finally. I let out the breath I'd been holding and realized I'd been dreading his rejection.

I dug my nails into my palm, noticing dejectedly that he wasn't looking at me still. Tentatively, I put my hand on his knee, wondering at my uncharacteristic forwardness. It was obvious that he was trying to relax his stiff shoulders. I pushed an errant lock away from his pristine white mask, trying to catch his eye again. "I've missed you, Erik. . ."

He sighed suddenly, a sort of plaintive sigh that brought tears to my eyes, and suddenly regained his composure. Gently he touched my hand briefly, in an infinitely sad way. . . Erik rose and tilted the fedora in his usual manner as he placed it over his raven hair. He looked so oddly debonair that I couldn't help but smile. He bowed gracefully, daringly taking my hand and brushing his lips against my fingers; my heart suddenly leapt to my throat, and a blush grew on my cheeks. "I'll be here tomorrow at seven o'clock to begin your lessons. . . Please do not be late, Miss Daae."

And with an elegant flick of his cloak, he vanished through the mirror.

**Raoul:**

"So do you understand?"

The woman before me nodded briskly, her strawberry blonde curls bobbing with the movement. A look of resolve was fixed onto her young face and always had been since I first met her. Her hazel eyes were cold and unemotional, so I could never guess what she was thinking or feeling. Her legs were crossed in a most unlady-like way, and she had an elbow rested on the arm of the divan. Though she had the outward appearance of a well-bred young woman, she had the manners or a rogue. . .

"I do," she said sensuously, rising to face me as I stood at the mantle. Her blood red lips curled into something like a smile; she came close to me, resting her long hands on my shoulders. She began to reach for my face with those red lips, but I quickly pushed her away, almost harshly.

"Mademoiselle," I said with strict formality, nodding curtly. I brushed off my arm invisible dust, almost as if I could rid myself of a newly acquired disease. I stared at her icily, but she didn't seem to notice. "I do hope you realize I have a wife."

"Do you?" she replied caustically, hands on her hips. Her lips were pursed, but soon she was sneering. "Well, soon enough, anyway. I'll show myself out." She brushed past me, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She paused at the doorway and spun around on her heel to glare at me. "I shall be expecting my payment soon, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Yes, I am quite aware of that, Miss DeVan."

She made a sound very much like a grunt and whirled out of the room.

**A/N:** Love it? Hate it? Want me to get on with it? Review please!


	17. Guide and Guardian

**Disclaimer:** Like any faithful Phantom-phan, I wish that Erik was mine. ~_^

**A/N:** I may not be uploading as many chapters as I'd like because: A,) I have to go to practice with the school marching band and B,) I'm afraid I have a slight case of writer's block. I don't want to upload chapters that were thrown together simply to get them up; I want them to be the best I can write. . .

  
  
  
  
**Erik:**

She was truly back. . . she wasn't just some apparition from the cruel dreams I had. My perfect, wonderful angel was back! I didn't imagine the delicateness of her skin, nor how silky her brown curls had been. Those bright eyes watching me. . . I had missed that the most - the shy way she looked at me. Her smile was as enchanting as ever; she was still beautiful beyond compare. Her voice still rang in my ears like fragile bells, echoed through my soul with that quiet strength. My heart ached for her, by my mind kept it at bay.

"Christine doesn't love you," I reminded myself slowly, my eyes suddenly burning. "She wants only her Angel of Music. . ."

Despite my efforts to stop it, a tear fell from my eye and cascaded down the white porcelain of my mask. I brushed it away forcefully, cursing my own weakness. I sat up from where I lay in my coffin and took a quivering breath. The unbidden memory of her soft lips on mine forced itself on me. I could still feel her fingers on my arms; I remembered how our bodies had seemed to meld together, as if we became one. Still I could recall the graceful curve of her back, the elegant slope of her small shoulders. . .

I would never have that again, I realized ruefully. In fact, had I not committed that kidnapping, I wouldn't have had it at all. She had given me that kiss to save her boy - not because she. . . not because she actually _cared_ for me. It was a bribe; payment for releasing Raoul de Chagny. Luckily for her, it had worked. . .

My fists were clenched as I climbed out of my coffin, and I was gritting my teeth to keep myself from crying again. Christine would never be able to look past my grotesque visage; I hadn't expected her to. But for fleeting moments I pretended that she could look past this loathsome countenance, imagined that she would love me for myself and not hate me for my face. The only way I could hope for her affection was to come to her as her mentor and protector.

So if it was her Angel of Music she wanted, then it was the Angel she would get. . .

  
  
  
The next day passed unbearably slowly. I spent the time playing my violin as much as humanly possible. I added a few more lines to the song I had previously been working on. Impatiently I waited for the hours to pass, watching the clock in expectant dread and earnest. I truly was looking forward to our lesson, but I hated that I would have to relive the burning passion that had to be contained. I had long since convinced myself that she was not - nor ever had been - mine. . .

_. . . to have and to hold. . ._

. . . to love and to cherish. . .

. . . till death do us part. . .

I laughed at my sentiments bitterly, yet somewhere was that uneasy misery that always dwelled in me when I thought of Christine. I found myself sitting in the room I dubbed as her own, my fingers twisting themselves around the wedding veil. Timidly, I brushed the material against my bare cheek, as if I could still gather the warmth that came from her body, as if I could still smell her hair. Would this be as close as I would ever get to touching her?. . .

I waited for her behind the mirror, rather impatiently, violin in hand. Half-heartedly I tuned the instrument and began playing random notes. She was late. It wouldn't have been the first time - in fact, I had been expecting it - but for some reason, I was annoyed by it. She no longer had to fear the irrational wrath of an angel, for she knew now that her guardian was nothing more than a mere man. After about fifteen more minutes of waiting, she rushed into the room and shut the door quickly. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing deeply. Quite obviously, she had been running - or at least rushing to get to her dressing room.

"Angel?" she called out softly. I sighed inwardly, unreasonably disappointed that she used that soubriquette.

I drew the bow over the violin's strings, coaxing the note out of the instrument. A smile appeared on her lips and she sat down on the divan. "You're late," I said softly.

"I know I am, forgive me. The managers were trying to get me to take over the leading role."

"And you didn't take it?"

She shrugged her shoulders simply. "We're performing _Faust_ this time and. . ." She looked at me through the mirror as she trailed off. I sighed as a way of showing my understanding. "Could you come out here?" she asked suddenly. "I don't feel comfortable talking to a mirror."

I laughed quietly. "You seemed quite all right with it for three months," I scoffed gently. Nonetheless, I walked into the room and set the violin against the wall. There was a minute of resounding silence as we stared at eachother; I felt as if my heart would burst from love of her, and I could barely keep my emotions in check. I wanted her so badly! I wanted to touch her cheek; I wanted to brush away that lock on her forehead. If only she could love me in return. . .

Her voice snapped me out of my reverie. She gasped softly, standing to come up to me. Her fingers grazed my left cheek, the concern in her eyes obvious. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to where one of the many full masks in my expansive collection. . . "What happened to your face?"

_Well,_ I thought bitterly, _I was born with a hideous deformity that even my own mother feared. . ._

I winced suddenly when her finger gently traced one of the larger scratches on my left cheek. Embarassed, she took her hand away, but her gaze never left me. "It's nothing," I said dismissively, but I knew that should try to pursue the subject later. Christine sat down at the vanity and waited for me to sit on the divan. Of course, I remained standing, crossing my arms deliberately. "What are you doing back here?" I asked, keeping the edge out of my voice. "Wouldn't the Vicomte de Chagny be unhappy, to say the least, that I'm here with you?"

Christine shrugged again as she toyed with a comb. "He. . . suggested I come back. To work here, I mean. . ."

"How kind of him. How does he know you won't run-off with one of the other chorus members? Or that you won't marry some other man?"

"Because he trusts me -"

"Ah, but does he trust _me_?"

She became uneasy; I realized too late that my voice had contained too much annoyance and mockery to be taken lightly. It seemed as if we were silent for hours before she began to talk. "We've put our engagement on hiatus."

More deafening silence.

I was too stunned for words as she waited for my reply. My mind began to buzz as what seemed like millions of thoughts forced themselves on me. _You mean,_ I screamed silently, _I gave everything up - you, my sanity, my _life_ - for nothing?_ I wondered vaguely how much she must hate me for interfering with her life. Surely if I hadn't been so insanely obsessed with her, she would have already married her boy ages ago. If she hadn't pitied me, she would have already left the Opera House - she would have left Paris all together. . .

With more calm than I felt, I picked up the violin and drew the bow over the strings once more. "Mademoiselle," I said quietly, with dull politeness, once again taking on the role of the teacher, "If you so please, I would like to begin with the last act of _Faust_ from the invocation of the angels. . ." 


	18. My Soul Was Weak

**Christine:**

I had truly forgotten how much I loved being in his company, but that day he was oddly detached from the music. He would always throw himself into the song, his perfect voice floating in the room; it sometimes felt as if I were drowning in the music, but his voice and his presence would always hold me and secure me against the music's violent flow. But this was the first time I had heard him very nearly miss a beat, the first time he sang so apathetically. Even when he played the violin there was no emotion behind it. It was almost as perfect as ever, but it was so _empty_ that I felt like weeping.

After he left, I slumped heavily onto the divan, feeling as if I had been hollowed-out. What was it that had changed Erik so much? At first I decided that he was most likely bored with the material. We had gone over _Faust_ so many times that even I knew it forwards and backwards. _Yes,_ I thought as I tried to convince myself of it, _that's it, Erik's bored. . ._ Exhausted, I laid down on the divan and closed my eyes.

I sighed when there was an insistent knock at the door. _The ballet rehearsals must have finished,_ I thought lazily. "Not right now," I called. "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

There was a pause of indecision, and the knock came once more. Sighing again, I swung my legs off of the divan and told Meg to come in. "Oh!" I exclaimed in surprise when my visitor entered. Instantly I recognized the Persian and began apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry, Nadir, I thought you were my friend Meg -"

He held up a hand to quiet me, watching me warily. "Good evening, Christine. I hope I am not disturbing you?" I shook my head dumbly and offered him a chair, which he took.

"If it's not too rude to ask, Nadir. . . what are you doing here?"

Nadir smirked slightly and relaxed his tense shoulders. "I needed to talk to you." I waved for him to continue, knowing what our subject would be immediately. "What are you doing back at the Opera House?"

"I didn't want to spend my time with Raoul knitting or sewing; I wanted to keep myself busy so I came back to the opera house -"

"Right." He chuckled softly and crossed his arms. His eyes bore into me almost viciously, and I tried in vain to return the intensity of his stare. After a second or two, he said shortly. "Don't hurt him. He's already experienced more pain than either of us could ever imagine in his entire life."

This was what I was expecting, but he still managed to catch me off-guard. My fingers traced a crease in my skirts, my head bowed. "Nadir, may I ask you something?" He assented with a grunt. "He came in a couple of times before, yesterday. . . he had a full mask on, though, so I didn't notice until today. . . He had scratches on his face - new ones and old ones alike. Some looked like they were going to bleed at the softest touch. . . They pained him - I know it; I didn't think when I was doing it, but I touched one of the scratches and. . . What happened to him?"

At first Nadir was silent, and indecision danced in his eyes. He touched his temple and leaned back in the chair, piecing together a reply. "There were times," he said finally, "when Erik's own grief got the better of him. He. . . has always been a rather violent person. . ."

There was a finality in his tone while he let the words hang in the air. Of course, I could think of nothing to say to that anyway; nothing to build upon. I knew then that I had caused all of Erik's grief and suffering, even if Nadir had tried to spare me the knowledge. There was so much about me to hate, that I wondered how anyone could even begin to _think_ of loving me. I was the source of so much pain. . . Could I even hope to heal it all? It would definitely need more than the usual kind word and gentle touch. . .

Could I now tell Erik my feelings for him, knowing I had given him so much agony? It seemed as if he would be happy if I left him alone to his own life. Even if I told him, would my love for him be reciprocated? Could he - _would_ he - still love me too? Erik had taken on the role of my mentor once again. Was that a sign that he would no longer think of me intimately?. . .

I was aware of Nadir rising to leave. He bowed slightly in a sort of mock politeness and opened the door. "You're going to hurt him," the Persian said softly, his back to me, "even if you don't mean to. Just. . . try to ease the blows, all right?"

And with that, he left me alone with my thoughts.

  
  
  
**Nadir:**

"Erik, what are you doing?"

He looked at me mutely, that dream-like quality in his eyes. Slowly he returned to reality and seemed a bit surprised. "I'm re-stringing my violin," he explained in a hushed voice, as if he were trying to preserve the quiet that had fallen in his home. "I. . . fear I have been putting it through much - abuse, lately."

Erik smiled slightly, though his expressing was still a plaintive one. He plucked one of the strings gently and set about tightening and loosening them. Concerned, I watched his face for any sort of sign, but, like always, his face and the mask that hid it was calm and indifferent. I glanced over the visible scratches on his left cheek and noted with a frown that they still looked raw. Still, it was apparent he didn't want to be disturbed with my lectures of keeping those scratches clean as he busied himself, so I decided not to bother him. I had only wanted to make sure he was all right and, that done, I decided to leave.

"Daroga," he called huskily, surprising me with the title. It seemed as if it had been a while since he called me that, when the last time had only been yesterday. I mused that Christine's mere presence had changed him once again. . . I came back and waited for him to continue whatever it was he wanted to say. Erik hesitated a moment, and I saw him bite his lower lip before he plunged into the question. "I. . . Do - do you. . . think it's foolish that I should - that I should still love someone who. . . will never love me in return?"

I watched him quizically, thinking perhaps he wasn't serious. But as he stared at his violin distantly, I knew that he question was in earnest. He seemed so innocent sometimes, even if he was only a few years younger than myself. And now that same naivety I once saw in my Reza was sparkling in his gold eyes. His hands barely shook as he waited for my answer, his head tilted slightly to the side.

"No. . ." I heard myself say automatically. "No, I don't think it is. It's only foolish if you use that love to hurt someone." Did I imagine seeing him wince? . . . Erik nodded once more and pretended to work on the violin. But when I turned to leave again, I saw the glint of gold in the candle light.

"Good night, Nadir."

"Good night, Erik. . ."

  
It was a little maddening, I mused as I rowed across the glassy surface of the lake, seeing that resignation in Erik. That passion for Christine had deadened all of his other emotions and caused him to withdraw from all else. There was sadness and a sort of desperation in his eyes as he came to conclusions that no one else thought of. He was using his impassiveness as a shield against all of the other feelings that whirled around him; he was re-building the walls around his soul. Though they were nowhere near as strong as they had been previously, those guards were more vicious, if not more dangerous. There was a broken mass in his chest where his heart had once been, and the broken shards still seemed to float in that darkness. He would never be the same - his apathy and passion for that girl had reached a peak and seemed to be staying there. . . 


	19. You Speak My Name

**A/N:** I don't know when the next chapter will be up. I apologize for the delay; school has started up for me, and surprisingly I've had a lot of homework. I'll try to get the next part up as soon as I can. Ack. . . this story is getting a lot longer than I had expected; and I'm still not even close to being done! Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

  
  
**Erik:**

I couldn't sleep that night or for many nights thereafter. I could only slip into a restless trance filled with images of both my wretched past and the beauty of her face. No matter how tired I was, I couldn't rest knowing that she had been up there, under the same roof as I. I always felt vaguely intoxicated after I taught her - drunk on both the music and on the innocent beauty of her voice. It seemed as if the walls still buzzed from the splendor that had escaped her throat. The thought that she had been there at all filled me with joyful contentment; the fact that I had been with her set my mind ablaze.

I didn't dare go up to that room, though, except when I practiced with her. But there was one time that I went up to that passageway without her knowing. Our lesson had run late, and I had left her to herself, retreating to the less-than-comforting blackness of the cellars reluctantly. But as time passed, I found that Sleep would not welcome me into its realm of dreams and nightmares. I set about travelling around my dark underworld kingdom, walking through the corridors like the Minotaur guarding its labyrinth.

Suddenly, I found my hands pressed up against the one-way mirror with no recollection of how I'd gotten there. My fingers were spread apart and I had the urge to push against the barrier that separated me from the dressing room. Obviously she was staying the night in the Opera House - it had gotten much too late for it to be safe for her to hail a carriage when our lesson had ended. As I looked in I saw, in the dim light of a single lamp, the outline of her slumbering form. I was abruptly jealous of the blanket that clung to her body in a mockery of a lover's embrace, touching the soft skin of her arms that I could never feel. I wanted to be close to her, to feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek, the gentleness of her hand on my shoulder; that smothering heat of her kiss. . .

I bit back a sigh until I could taste the blood on my lower lip. My hands were clenched in tight fists as I held my emotions back, trying desperately to keep silent. These wanton urges and desires would be the death of me if I failed to contain them. And yet-! Even while she slept she had the beauty of an angel. I watched as her chest rose and fell with her deep, even breaths; and before I knew it, I heard my voice speak her name.

"Christine. . ."

In horror, I backed away as she stirred, instinctively pulling the brim of my hat lower over my mask. I could not completely force myself to leave yet. My mind was racing, my blood pounding uncomfortably loudly in my ears. Surely my racing heart could be heard all across Paris! I began to hum soothingly, unable to remember the words of that old lullaby even if my life had depended on it. My hands shook as I touched the mirror once more; she sighed quietly and was soon lulled back to sleep by my voice.

I decided that it would be too dangerous to even attempt returning to this room again - even if she wasn't in it. If I continued to act recklessly like this, there was no telling what further damage could be rendered between Christine and I. I had already found what these thoughtless gamblings could do - dare I continue to raise those dire stakes? No, I could only come to this mirror when it was time for her tutoring. Any other time and I would never be able to hold myself back. I allowed myself one last glance before reluctantly turning away and walking back through the passageways. . .

. . . Alone. . .

  
  
_I was locked in a cage, deprived of my mask - the one and only shield I had against humanity and its probing eyes. There was fear in all of the faces that surrounded me; there was that all-too-powerful hatred in their eyes as they all secretly tried to wish me away. My hands and neck were tied to the bars tightly; I couldn't bow my head, I couldn't cover my grotesque visage. No matter how much I struggled against those bonds, I couldn't free myself. There was a deep cry of animal fury echoing in my ears before I realized it came from my own throat._

I pulled against the ropes that secured me to the cage, kicking the fear-filled air with my legs uselessly. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my eyes stinging as the sweat and tears mingled together. I scanned the terrified audience, stared at the open, shrieking mouths; their cries became a hideous cacophony that pained the ears. The air was thick with frightened weeping and those uncontrollable shrieks. Women fainted; children cried out in terror - **terror of the living corpse!**

I twisted and turned frantically, trying desperately to get away from that hate. . . that **loathing**. The rope bit into my neck, my skin raw from the constant rubbing of those indiscriminate bonds. My own screams had turned into hysterically sobbing. I couldn't breathe and I began thinking perhaps I would suffocate.

"Let me go home," I cried ineffectually to no one in particular. I pulled against my constraints with all of my strength in vain. "Let me go home! Give me my mask back. . . **please!** I'm begging you! I don't want to be in here - I don't want to be in this cage!. . ."

  
"Erik?" Christine murmured when I had missed my cue. I had allowed my mind to wander as she sang, for once ignoring the beauty and the pureness of her voice. "Erik, are you all right? You don't seem yourself today."

I smiled slightly behind the full black mask, musing over her insightfullness. Truth to tell, I had had an awful night - my dreams were filled with the dark phantasms of my bleak past. It had been a week or so after the night I'd watched her behind the mirror, and _Faust_ was soon to be performed. Christine had progressed wonderfully under my tutelage; during those lessons, our conversations consisted of nothing but the opera. This would have been the first time, besides our initial lesson, that she asked a question that wasn't about a chord in the music. I sighed softly and tiredly leaned back in the chair.

"Erik?" she repeated, her voice quivering in what I thought was hidden fear. "Are you ill?"

I swallowed a bitter laugh. As if she truly cared! Doesn't she remember?, I thought acerbically. _The Angel of Music never gets sick!_ And yet, I wanted desperately for her to truly be concerned. No. . . no, this was simply a polite pleasantry. I held back my instinctive sarcastic response.

"No, my child," I said aloud, taking on the same aloofness I had always used with her. Perhaps if I pretended not to care for her, then it would become reality? "I'm quite all right. But. . . thank you for asking."

Christine seemed satisfied with this (how easily the girl could be mollified!), gracing me with a smile that looked too forced. She took a strand of hair, curling it around her fingers, and instantly I recognized the telltale sign that she had more to say. Sure enough, she asked timidly, "Will you be at the performance?"

Sighing inwardly, I realized with some surprise that wasn't what I was hoping she would say, even if I couldn't figure out what I had been expecting. "To listen to Mlle DeVan become the epitome of a bleating cow?" She allowed me the pleasure of hearing her melodious laugh. "Yes, I suppose, if you wish for me to be there."

She nodded slowly in earnest and looked down at her hands on her lap in an endearing way. "Please, if you could. . . That is, if you aren't busy that night. . ."

_Oh, such cruel misfortune!_ I told her silently, _Actually, I was, indeed, planning on entertaining that night, my child. I don't suppose you have met Monsieur Nobody and his dear and lovely wife, Madame Nothing? Ah, but I'm more than sure that they can wait; I shall just have to set aside all of my plans for that night. Besides, they do have a child to care for - I can't quite recall, but Naught, I think believe his name was. . ._

"It's getting late, my dear," I informed her gently, pressing the switch that would turn the mirror on its pivot. "I suggest that you rest your voice and get some sleep; even if you are not performing in Mlle DeVan's stead. Good night, Christine."

Though she saw me disappear through the mirror, I stayed behind and watched as she tidied that poor excuse for a dressing room. I held my breath when she stared directly at me, even though I knew that she couldn't truly see me through the barrier between us. She dimmed the lamps in her room and draped her cloak over her shoulders. She opened the door and stood there a moment, the light from the hall filtering into the room. She turned to face the room again and, as she pulled the hood over her dark curls, I could have sworn I heard her whisper:

"Good night, my Angel. . ." 


	20. Grant to Me Your Glory

**A/N:** There will be a part in the chapter that is completely in italics to signify that it's being told by the unknown narrator - the "disembodied voice" if you will. Thanks to my reviewers for the feedback - I think you'll be quite happy to know that there are a lot of more chapters to come in the future; I just don't know when I'll have them up. I'm starting to think I'll have to limit my chapters down to one or two a week, so please be patient with me. Sorry for the inconvenience. To make it up, I'll leave you all with a rather long chapter tonight. . .

Btw, AriesSolar, please don't hurt yourself. (^)^;;

  
  
  
**Christine:**

It felt as if an army of butterflies was flying around in my stomach as I waited for my cue. I was rather shocked when the audience had reacted positively when the managers had announced the change in roles. This had all been planned out, and I'm afraid to say that I too was one of the conspirators.

The managerial duo had, after many long days, persuaded Mlle DeVan into playing a supporting role and, after an even longer time period, convinced me into playing Marguerite. It wasn't to be announced that the cast had been changed so as to still bring in Julia's fans (however few in number they were) and let gossip do its work. Of course, I already knew that they weren't announcing my return because of the events that had happened when I was last on the stage. Quite a clever plan, actually; that is, it would work wonders if I did well that night. Even I, myself, had doubted my ability during the agonizing time backstage. It felt as if ages had passed since the last time that I had sung on stage, though it had only been months.

_What if my voice cracks?_ I thought as I wrung my hands apprehensively. I'd die of embarrassment if I forgot my lines! What if _he_ became ashamed of me? If I made a mistake, would he forgive me?. . .

Too soon it seemed that my time had arrived, and I walked onto the stage; the butterflies suddenly felt as if they had turned into bees. For a split second, I hesitated and my lines suddenly escaped my mind. I glanced out towards the audience and the glow of something white caught my eye.

It came from Box Five.

And at that moment all my fears disappeared as I began to sing. I ignored everything else and only concentrated on singing to my protector; my friend; my love. The music washed over me, filling my throat in that familiar way. I was no longer Christine - innocent, daft Christine. I became Marguerite and completely lost myself in the role. I imagined that I was simply singing to Erik in my dressing room and I could feel his gentle influence guiding me. My Angel. . .

The audience suddenly erupted. I snapped back into myself as I was taking my bows; I had no idea how I had gotten there and relief flooded over me as I realized that I had finished. The auditorium was filled with resounding applause. People began to stand, catching me off-guard, and soon everyone was on their feet. I felt my cheeks turn red, my lips going into a wide grin. Tears fell from my eyes and I soon wavered, being caught by unseen hands. All the time I looked up into the boxes. And for a short time, I thought I could see a tall, enigmatic form standing in the shadows of the fifth box - standing and _clapping_.

That had been too much, and I remember everything disappearing into blackness.

  
  
I awoke in my dressing room to hear my name being called out. I looked around numbly at the ballet-girls and, to my surprise, well-dressed young men. I smiled at the doctor weakly while I rubbed by temple. After a word or two, he was satisfied with my health and ushered everyone out of the room, closing the door behind him. I stayed on the divan a few moments longer, reveling in the silence as my mind settled itself slowly.

As I sat-up, I saw that various groups of floral arrangements had been left around the room, filling it with a sweet smell that made me dizzy. There were so many flowers of different size and shape, and for some time I was mesmerized by the rainbow of colors that dazzled my eyes. Despite myself, I laughed quietly in happiness.

"Christine!" Meg's muffled voice called through the door. "Christine, are you in there?"

I opened the door for her and she hugged me tightly. "You were wonderful tonight!" she exclaimed, and we were soon giggling like we once had when we were both in the ballet chorus. "Julia was absolutely infuriated when the audience gave you that standing ovation - you should have seen her!"

Meg helped me take off the thick stage make-up at the vanity table and she told me of all the suitors that had suddenly rushed into my dressing room. "They were all fops," she said jokingly and her grin was contagious. "When they found that you hadn't woken up after five minutes, they started chasing after the ballet chorus."

She abruptly became subdued when I put my hair down, shaking out my curls in a most unlady-like manner. As I watched her beside me in the vanity mirror, her hand touched a single, crimson red rose on the table, just barely blooming from its bud; the flower had been de-thorned by a skillful hand. Attached to the stem by a black silk ribbon was an envelope addressed "_To Christine, from your Angel_" in red ink and a labored hand.

"Christine. . ." she said with a touch of alarm, instantly recognizing the handwriting; obviously she had reached the same conclusion as I, but she was reacting in a much different way than I was.

I could see the shadow of fear in her eyes and I took the flower from her with a shaking hand. "It's all right," I assured her, my voice wavering as a flood of giddiness washed over me. "Really, Meg, I swear, it's all right." When she seemed unconvinced, I opened the envelope in front of her, savoring the mild scent of sandalwood that wafted from the paper. I started reading the brief letter aloud as she read it over my shoulder.

"_Dear Christine,_

You were exquisite tonight. Why didn't you tell me you were singing the lead? I'm proud of you, and I am very happy to say that I am your tutor.

I assume that you will be exhausted by your performance and you would most definitely require rest - you most certainly deserved it.

The angels wept tonight,

Erik, your Angel of Music"

I was vaguely aware of the grin that had found itself on my lips; though the letter was short, that did not keep me from swimming in the ocean of joy that his praise always left me in. I giggled softly, to Meg's surprise, and she eyed me strangely. She snatched the paper from my hands, provoking a cry of astonishment from me. She flipped it over as I tried to get it back, but her voice froze me when she read:

"_I will be on the banks of the lake if you need me - you should know the way._"

She handed the letter back to me and pointed at the sentence on the back of the paper. I stared at the note incredulously, dropping it back onto the vanity. A vast myriad of emotions paraded through me that I can not, even now, account for; in fact, most of the feelings that I had felt in that moment I couldn't even name! When I regained my bearings, I examined the sentence carefully. It seemed as if it had been written reluctantly, the letters looking as if they had been penned with a sort of stabbing movement. Indeed, the writing was just barely noticeable - had Meg not been paying such close attention, surely it would have slipped past my eyes. The small words had not been intended for me to read; but there they were, nonetheless, and had, most definitely, been read.

"Christine, will you answer something for me?" Meg asked warily, refolding the note scrupulously for me and placing it back in its envelope. "Why exactly are you back at the opera house? And don't lie to me." I began staring at my hands in my lap as she watched me suspiciously. She suddenly gasped in understanding and took a step back.

"Don't tell me. . . Christine, you can't be. . . you aren't. . ."

I turned to look at her beseechingly. "Meg, please don't tell anyone. I mean it - don't tell anyone. . ."

Meg nodded slowly, biting her lip for a brief second. She began whispering urgently, "But Christine. . . why? He's a murderer! He killed Buquet and Piangi. . ."

"I know," I said mournfully. "But that doesn't matter to me. . . I just _do_. I don't know why, but - no, I do know why. Meg, he has the most beautiful soul I've ever seen, and the fact that he may have done some bad things in the past doesn't change that. And it doesn't change the fact that I lo-"

A rap at the door distracted me from my doubts and I opened the door to greet my visitor. I was fully expecting it to be Madame Giry to collect Meg.

"Well," he said lightly, his voice surprising me, "it doesn't quite look like I'm welcome tonight; am I, Christine?"

As realization struck me, I laughed while we hugged for a moment. "Raoul!" I exclaimed softly. "I didn't know you were here!"

He bowed low, as if I was royalty, and said with theatric formality, "I made a promise, did I not? I said I would reserve a box so that I could see you after every performance. And a Chagny always keeps his word." Raoul took my hand and brushed his lips against my fingers. He straightened and glanced around the room with a gesture. "I see you have a few admirers," he joked.

"That would have to be the greatest understatement I've ever heard." I smiled as I stepped aside, offering him a seat on the divan. He sat down a plucked a note attached to one of the more ostentatious of the flowers. "Hello - Meg, is it?"

Meg nodded and giggled nervously, blushing as she gave him a timid wave. "I'll leave you two alone," she murmured. She discreetly replacing the rose on the vanity behind another floral arrangement as she left the room.

"_Dear Miss Christine Daae,_" Raoul intoned unexpectedly as he read the letter aloud, taking on the air of one of the many love-sick men young men who frequented the opera. "_After to-night, I fear you have made-off with my heart! I love you with all my soul._ And it's signed, _Your future husband_. No other name, I notice."

We both laughed a bit loudly at that point, though it seemed mean-spirited to do so. After that, we lapsed into the usual pleasantries from health to weather. It felt as if nothing had changed since our childhood - when we were simply very good friends and nothing more.

"What was that? I'm sorry, Raoul, I was distracted. . ."

"I asked," he repeated kindly, standing and bowing in one rather graceful movement, "if you would give me the honour of taking you out to a late dinner? That is, if you aren't tired. If you remember," he chided jokingly, a shadow of sadness finding its way into his voice, "you promised me that you would see me once in a while. . ."

"Oh, of course - I'd love to. If it's no trouble."

He placed my cloak around my shoulders, offering me an arm, and escorted me out.

  
  
_"And it doesn't change the fact that I lo-"_

Raoul suddenly became miserable at that point as he listened to their conversation outside the door. Before she could go on, he knocked loudly on the door, if not a tad bit too obnoxiously. He put on the biggest smile he could when she opened the door for him, using his almost boyish charm. No, Christine could never see him sad - if she did, then she too would share his sorrow. And that would only prove to worsen his demeanor.

He was irrationally triumphant as he whisked her away from her dressing room; there was a sort of poetic justice in that. He was taking her away from the Phantom's realm of darkness - in much the same way that the Phantom had taken Christine from Raoul's world of light.

I win this round, Phantom,_ Raoul thought victoriously, _I win this round. . .

  
  
_It was hours that Erik waited on the bank of the lake, but it felt like thousands of years to him. With every passing moment came another pang of morose. _Why am I still waiting?_ he mused, standing as still as a statue, staring out across the placid lake. The odd blue light from the waters danced across his mask, causing it to glow ethereally. His hand was raised and he let his mind wander off as the blue glow played on his long, tapered fingers._

He remembered once having touched her face with those fingers. . . A ghost of a smile found itself on his lips as he remembered his first and last moment of bliss - a moment he wasn't sure that he deserved. All he wanted was a normal existence; all he wanted was to be liked and accepted for himself, despite the mask and the deformity it hid. All of his life, the only thing he truly wanted was to be loved. . .

Erik's jaw muscles tightened as he ground his teeth together, cursing his emotional weakness. He crouched down and submerged his hand into the icy cold water; fixedly he watched as blood curled in tendrils. Apparently, he thought distantly, he had dug his nails into his palms more forcefully than he had presumed.

He sighed aloud - a sigh so full of melancholy and pain that it would have brought even the most cold of men to tears - and dried his hand on his pant leg, pulling a white glove over his fingers. With a sort of meek optimism, he glanced behind in hopes of seeing her coming nearer. His gold eyes pierced through the darkness, but he wasn't surprised when he saw nothing there. He pulled out a pocket watch and, seeing how late it was, gave up any childish dreams he had. Resignedly he sat down in the small boat for a few moments, unable to motivate himself to begin the journey home.

Erik stood slowly and took the paddle in hand. The boat moved slowly as he rowed with relatively feeble strokes. She hadn't come, and though it didn't shock him, it still hurt to think of it. She simply hadn't come, and, like many times before, he was forced to make the trip home in solitude.

No matter what he did, he realized ruefully, his music and his voice could not fill that dark void. 


	21. Apollo's Lyre

**A/N:** Trinity: Ack - I _just_ realized that Nadir was older! I was reading _Progeny_ about a month ago (by Becky L. Meadows; totally worth the twenty dollars for the book) and then it got into my head that Erik was older because of one of the passages in it. Then I was started flipping through _Phantom_ again (both for inspiration and because you pointed it out), and then I realized my mistake! I'll fix it very soon - thanks for pointing it out.

  
  
**Erik:**

It's silly of me to have expected her to come that night. How could she - _why_ would she? Christine obviously had a good many suitors after her triumphant return to the stage. And her viscount was there. . . I had seen him in the box across from mine, and I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from jumping clear across the room and wrapping my fingers around his throat. No doubt he'd wish to see her - from what I understood, he still loved her, perhaps as much as I. No doubt she would wish to see him as well. And yet. . .

And yet I left that rose anyway. It was easy enough; there were so many starry-eyed young men and giddy ballerinas in that small room that they wouldn't have noticed if a horse suddenly galloped in. So under their eyes and noses, I left the note despite all of my misgivings. I can't help but think that if I hadn't left it for her, maybe I wouldn't feel so miserable now. It's funny, isn't it? I'm much too old to be fawning over a woman - a _girl_ - her age. But here I am, and my love for her seems to grow with every passing moment. Even during that desolate night on the banks of the lake, I couldn't bring myself to be angry with her. . .

The music refused to come to me as I sat down before the great, black organ lining the wall of my chamber. Ayesha cajoled me into stroking her soft fur, and for only a few fleeting moments did her purring comfort me. She, too, began to bore and soon dozed off on the bench beside me. I smirked somewhat and left that house on the lake.

Soon I found myself in Box Five of the opera house, all of the lights shut off, not remembering at all the journey I had taken to this place. Everyone had gone hom - even the firemen who checked the doors had long since left. My voice filled the theatre, ringing with the sighs that I didn't know had escaped me. She had stood there, I remembered with a smile, on that great stage; the lights had made her smile all the more brighter. . .

Moments later I was on the roof top, sitting beneath great Apollo's sheilding arms as he raised his lyre up to the star-studded sky. I found refuge under the towering image of the God of Light and Truth, which fought back the groping shadows.

_And here, too,_ I thought, _Christine had sat, with her young lover, scheming like a small child who was planning on stealing sweets. . ._

I reveled in the irony that I should find peace beneath something that brought back so many awful memories of deceit; of treachery. This was the place that she thought she was safe from _me_. This was the one place in my whole kingdom in which I could not deliberately affect what would unfold; I could not change what had happened with a simple angry letter written in red ink. I could not change what had happened with simple feats of ventriloquism. It was completely out of my hands - and that lack of control was what had pushed me over the edge.

"_Beyond the edge_," I echoed dully, staring up at the sky where once I had met my Master, "_there is no pain_. . ." Well, I had gone beyond the edge, and there I was greeted not with pain. No, not pain, not pain at all. Instead, I was met with utter torture and agony.

The gold ring glittered under the moonlight as I stared at it in my gloved palm. I remembered how it had looked on her finger. . . how right it looked; how right I had wanted it to look. And I remembered the wedding veil I so often held in my hands - once so pure a white that it seemed to glow, now stained reddish-brown from the blood that had covered my fingers. She had come to me as my living bride in what I was sure to be the first and last time I would have a wife; even if it was only for a moment of make-believe. _But in the dark it is easy to pretend,_ I thought, my bitterness doing nothing to overshadow my sadness, _that the truth is what it ought to be. . ._

I let the torrents of cold rain wash over me, and soon it would have been useless to decipher the tears on my unmasked face. I had removed the mask from fear of suffocating, but then I wondered if I would drown instead. The icy water somehow made it down my neck, though I wore a fedora over my head, and sent cold shivers down my spine. But I was beyond caring and refused to even acknowledge the precipitation that drenched my clothes and soaked my skin.

The rain receded to a soft drizzle by the time the sky turned grey with the light of false dawn; the oppressive porcelain mask was soon back in its rightful location on my face as I made that grueling trip "home" in solitude.

But it wasn't home - far from it. My home would always be with her; with Christine.

  
  
I began to cough as I gave Christine her lesson, trying to cover it by pretending to clear my throat; how unlucky that my infernal cough return as I was singing my half of the duet! I could have sworn I had gotten rid of it earlier today. . .

Clearing my throat once more, I brought the bow down and lowered the violin with unsteady hands. "Excuse me," I murmured, cursing my throat and the weak voice that it produced. It was ironic that I was going against my own teachings in that one shouldn't sing with a sore throat; I remembered forcing Christine not to talk when she had had that cold, a small, wry smile tugging at my lips. But I decided to ignore my discomfort and came to her dressing room despite it. As subtly as I could, I pulled the thick cloak closer around my shoulders and raised the violin again.

"Erik," she interjected suddenly from where she sat on the divan, her blue eyes watching in what seemed like a mockery of worry. "Erik, are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine. . ." I muttered dismissively. I stared at her from the corner of my eye and was tempted to ask what she did last night; but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was with Raoul de Chagny. I thought she had cut-off all contact with that infernal viscount! But of course not - it was never meant to be. And why make myself suffer through that rage of hearing that cursed name?. . .

"Aren't you hot, though?" she inquired with childlike innocence. "It's awfully warm in here; they must have all of the furnaces lighted and at full-blast."

I tilted my head slightly and watched her in confusion. _Hot?_ I mused. _That's odd. . . I'd say it was cold. . ._ Bemused, I ignored the question and directed her to begin the aria we had worked on earlier. It was obvious that she wasn't listening as I stopped and corrected her on her wording; I could feel her gaze on me the entire time, when usually her eyes were clouded in a dreamer's trance as she sang. "You're not concentrating, my dear."

"Oh. . . I'm sorry. . . it's just. . ."

"If you're distracted," I said slowly, trying to moderate my voice into even tones, "then I'll leave you to your thoughts - "

"You're shivering, Erik. . ."

" - because obviously our lessons aren't as important to you. . ."

"Why are you shivering?"

I ignored her again and stood - that proved to be a bad move on my part. Suddenly the room began to spin and I tried uselessly to reach out for something. My hand only grabbed air and I was vaguely aware of an abrupt, stinging pressure on my forehead; the ground quickly came rushing up, and I remember hearing someone crying my name as blackness overwhelmed me. . . 


	22. Shattered Porcelain

**Disclaimer:** Belongs to Leroux, ALW, and Susan Kay. The next couple of chapters were very much inspired by MidasGirl's "Nothing Left To Lose", and Calypso Diangelos' "Duplicity" - both of which can be found here on ff.net.

  
  
  
**Nadir:**

Erik wasn't at home when I walked in, nor was he on either side of the lake. This in itself wasn't an odd occurance - nowadays he was usually with Christine giving her voice lessons. But soon the minutes turned to hours and still he wasn't there. I thought nothing of it, though, and simply sat and waited.

It was only when Ayesha began clawing at the door like a dog that I began to worry. _He should have been back by now. . ._

After wandering around the opera house - if he saw me, he would surely inquire as to my presence, - I found myself at Christine's dressing room door, my hand hovering over the handle. It was late. Surely she would be at her flat already? I knocked briskly anyway, and was answered with silence. "Miss Daae?" I called softly in vain. As I turned to leave, I heard her wavering voice.

"Nadir? Is that you?" I said yes and heard the click of the door being unlocked. Suddenly she pulled me into the dark room and I stared at her incredulously.

"It's Erik," she told me frantically as she went on her knees beside him where he lay on his back on the floor. "He's so warm. . . I don't know what happened to him. . . Nadir, he just fainted!. . . he hit his head on the table and. . . and. . ."

She sobbed aloud and I came to stand beside her, inspecting Erik in the dim light of the lamp. The porcelain of his mask was shattered at the forehead, and pieces of it were imbedded in his skin. Timidly Christine tried to pick the shards with hands trembling in fear. Erik was as still as death and there were beads of sweat standing out on his upper lip. When I touched his bloodied forehead, I quickly pulled my fingers away from the heat that greeted them.

"Erik," Christine began to whisper, "Erik, please wake up. . . can you hear me? Are you listening? You have to wake up. . . Erik!. . ."

The scene playing out before me seemed so familiar, but at the time I didn't have the patience to remember where I had once seen it. "What are you doing?" she demanded almost hostilely as I took one of Erik's unnaturally warm arms and wrapped it around my soldiers.

"He can't stay here," I said simply; as if on cue, Erik groaned as I got him into a sitting position. Without questioning me further, Christine quickly took his other arm and wrapped it around her own small shoulders. Between us, we were able to get Erik to his feet; I pressed the switch that would tun the mirror on its pivot, and we walked into the passage. After groping around, I was able to find the lantern and light it. But despite that light, the darkness in that passage to the lake was still eerie and foreboding.

The many stairs proved most harrowing, and often we had to stop and rest. When finally we made it to the boat, we laid him in it gently; Christine surprised me greatly when, as she got into the boat, she rested Erik's head on her lap and wiped the blood from his forehead with a handkercheif, stroking his black hair almost lovingly. . . I had to avert my eyes when she looked up at me, for I knew she would have most likely been outraged by my candid gawking.

The small boat hit the shore of the opposite bank and, after a moment or two during which both Christine and I got our legs wet, we got Erik into his home and onto a divan. Ayesha's hissing was audible from where she rested on the mantle. Christine watched me expectantly as she kneeled beside Erik, grasping his warm hand.

"Should we put him in his room?" she suggested quietly, twining her fingers in a distant way with his. She flinched slightly at the unnatural heat his body emanated. I was immediately reminded of the two holes in the wall and shook my head. She then said instinctively, "Should we take him to my room?"

With a pang of amazement that she should still refer to the room as her own, I nodded and we took him into the Louis-Philippe room, took of his cloak, and laid him on the bed. I left Christine sitting beside him to get tweezers from his laboratory. Upon returning, I found that she had gotten a bowl of lukewarm water and was now gingerly dabbing at the congealed blood on his forehead with a towel. Wordlessly I handed her the tweezers and she immediately set about plucking the porcelain shards from his skin with a surprisingly steady hand. After leaving once more to get bandages, I watched as she gently pulled out the pieces of the mask, holding his hand against her cheek.

When she finished, I handed her the bandage; I lifted Erik's head slightly and she quickly, if not a little clumsily, wrapped and secured the gauze around his forehead. Christine wiped away the perspiration from his uncovered brow.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked suddenly; the look in her eyes told me that she needed my utmost reassurance.

"He only has a fever," I told her, deciding against telling her that it was an oddly high one. . . She nodded slowly and lowered her eyes. I swore silently when her finger abruptly began to circle a spot of dried blood on the edge of the bed's covers. She continued to do this absently for several more seconds before her face fell from understanding.

"His. . . scratches?" she murmured. Her head lifted to stare at me; reluctantly I nodded, and she turned to look at Erik with a gaze full of pity and sadness.

It had been five minutes that we remained there - she, at his side; I, hovering near the bed - when he groaned softly. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around with a sort of paralyzed disorientation. He began to focus and slowly raised his hand to touch the bandage on his head.

"Erik. . ."

He started at her soft voice as his gaze finally fell on her. "Christine," he whispered, immediately attempting to sit-up. This proved to be a bad idea on his part apparently, for he fell back onto the bed, his eyes tightly shut, rubbing his temples. She felt his forehead gently and his eyes flew open once more. "What's wrong?" he croaked dazedly, flinching from either her mere touch or her relatively cool fingers.

"You're ill," was my simple reply, and he looked at me in slight bemusement. "You have a fever. . . Apparently you hit your head and we brought you down here."

He nodded slowly and sank into the pillows with a sigh; his hand shaking, he wiped away the perspiration from the exposed skin around the porcelain. His anger at his sudden vulnerability was obvious by how he clenched his fists briefly over the covers. "I'll be fine," he said and started to sit up again.

My hand on his shoulder secured him in place, not harshly. Incredulously, he stared at me, almost in amusement and somewhat aggravated. "Erik," I said gruffly, "you're going to stay in bed, or I'll be forced to tie you down. And. . ." I bit my lip before saying softly, "you'll have to take of your mask."

Suddenly he raised himself on his elbows, his eyes glazing over with enraged terror. Of course, he was too weak to truly do anything drastic and was soon annoyed when I pushed him back again. For a split second, I saw his eyes soften when he saw Christine, who silently watched these events unfold. "I can't," he muttered huskily, his hand resting protectively on the mask.

"I'm afraid it's necessary, my friend -"

"No!" he cried as loudly as he could. His shoulder tensed beneath my hand as he turned his face away. "I won't. . ."

"Please, Erik, you must. . ."

His shudder at her words was barely perceptible. He deliberately turned his head back to Christine. "I can't," he whispered; his dazed tone revealed to me that he wasn't aware of what he was saying. "I can't. . . you'll run away. . ."

"No, I won't. I promise you."

Erik remained tense for a while, but slowly relaxed with resignation, shutting his eyes tightly; silently, he gestured slightly for her to go ahead. She loosened the black ribbons and lifted away the broken porcelain, biting her lip as the mask came off to reveal his ravaged features. After a pause, she dipped a new washcloth into the bowl of water and dampened his right cheek. He trembled from the coolness of the water and was visibly surprised at her calm reaction to his face.

"I'll go get you some water, all right?"

She patted his hand affectionately before walking out of the room. We watched her leave and he sighed softly. "She came down of her own accord?" Erik asked weakly. I nodded, and the shadow of a smile played across his misshapen lips. "So she's not afraid to plunge into the labyrinth when the gruesome minotaur is unable to track its victim, is that right?. . ."

I was about to tell him otherwise - of how worried she was when I came to her in her dressing room; how she was on the verge of weeping from fear that he wouldn't awake - when Christine entered and sat on the bed beside him. "Here," she said softly, handing him a glass of water, "drink this."

He took a few obliging siips before returning the glass to her. She wrung the excess water from the cloth into the bowl and ran it on either of his cheeks. "Are you cold?" she asked softly in the sort of voice one would use with a child. Erik was too tired to be annoyed by this and he simply nodded. I picked-up his cloak from where it was left on the floor and handed it to Christine; she wrapped it around him with surprising tenderness. "Go to sleep, Erik, and you'll feel better in the morning. . ." 


	23. Feverish Dreams

**Christine:**

He nodded tiredly when I told him to get some rest; Erik closed his eyes and I began to hum for him the Gypsy song he had used to take me through my dressing room mirror. I think he smiled slightly when I began, but the next moment his face was unreadable.

I stopped singing to him long after his breathing deepened in the telltale sign of sleep. I allowed myself to openly start at the face I had found so hideous and terrifying, fully expecting myself to gag. I did not, much to my surprise and satisfaction. My eyes roved over the face that had forced this magnificent genius into hiding. At one time, I had seen him as a monster.

But now, I did not see that monster.

All I saw was Erik - a dark, beautiful angel sent to me straight from Heaven.

  
With his sleep came the feverish dreams and haunting phantasms of his bleak past.

As I sat beside him, running a lukewarm cloth across his forehead, he suddenly called out in remembered fear. Nadir came rushing in from the next room. We could only watch helplessly as his memories played out in his mind, forced him to relive all of those gruesome moments. . . Erik jerked away with another cry as I vainly dampened his cheek; he covered his head with his arms, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed, "Please!. . . Let me go home. . . give me back my mask! I don't want to be here - I want to go home. . . I don't want people to stare at me. I won't be stared at! Let me out of this cage!"

He tossed and turned for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time. When he stilled I let out a shuddering breath and glanced at Nadir, in no way concealing my mute shock and horror. "A cage," I heard myself whisper; Nadir raised his eyebrows - the only visible sign of his own surprise. I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood and clasped the wet washcloth in my hands. Feebly, I drew closer to Erik to wet his forehead; only this time, he did not move away from me. Far from it - this time, he actually moved closer. . . .

"You said I could have what I wanted for my birthday," he whispered in an innocent yet accusing voice. "You made me ask. . . Mama, why don't you ever touch me? All I wanted for my birthday was a kiss. . ."

I couldn't keep back the gasp that escaped me as I looked down at him. Those last words seemed to thunder in my ears despite how quietly they had been uttered. My poor, unfortunate Erik! How cruel the world has been to you and your genius. I moved closer again and started singing softly. After looking around and finding that Nadir had gone, I touched the pale skin of Erik's right cheek. He shuddered slightly but stayed in his restless trance between sleep and consciousness. To my surprise, I found that his skin was unusually soft despite the raw scratches there.

"Christine!" he called out, his voice catching in his throat. "Christine - no! No!"

He thrashed around on the bed with unnatural strength, his hand reaching out blindly in the air. "Shh. . . Erik," I murmured soothingly as if he were a child, "it's all right, I'm here. . ."

I took his hand into mine and he let out a painfully miserable sob. "Oh, Christine. . ." I wiped the tears from his eyes as they mingled with his cold perspiration. "I _trusted_ you. . . I trusted you to treat me as a human. . . I trusted you to come back and tell me. Yes or no - just two simple words. . . but you were just going to leave me here. . . just leave me wondering. . ."

"Dear God. . ." I muttered. He was reliving our ordeal with the scorpion and the grasshopper - the one moment I'd always remember for the rest of my life. I found myself weeping steadily when Erik stared at me with his delirious, clouded golden eyes.

"Why do you cry?" he asked detachedly. _Merely a coincidence,_ I told myself. "You know it pains me to see you cry. . .

"I never wanted to hurt you, Christine - I would rather die than hurt you. . . But you left me with no choice. . . I needed to see you one more time - I didn't want to force your answer. It would have been so much easier if you had simply come back. . . Please stop crying. I don't want you to cry. . ."

"Erik," I said brokenly, "it's all right - I came back. . . I came back. . ."

"I _trusted_ you," he repeated with a sort of tragic firmness. "I trusted you, Christine. . . I just wanted for you to. . . I just wanted. . . I. . ."

I brought his warm hand to my cheek and let my tears flow over his skeletal fingers. Glancing around one final time, I bowed my head, inching closer and closer to him.

"I understand," I murmured. "I always have. . ."

My lips touched his cheek and a sob wracked his body. "Angel," he croaked. "Christine. . ."

I wrapped my arms around him protectively, as if to shield him from the darkness of his past and the vicious demons that plagued him; as if to keep him safe from the world that had shunned him. I would keep him safe from the world that had forced him into this world of endless night, hate and fear. My heart swelled with my love for him. I wanted him to know that there was someone in this cruel world that cared for him and loved him deeply; a love so strong that it hurt to think of it.

His body became relatively still, yet he was trembling for a reason I could not decipher. Bust as I leaned closer, a thought raced across my mind - would he have wanted me to do this? I wanted him to know that I loved him.

But would he accept my feelings for him?

Would he forgive me for this new embarrassment?

For a brief and remarkably joyful moment, I had allowed myself to let loose my caged emotions - while he was asleep and unaware of my true presence. Would he want to "share once again with me, our strange duet" that overpowered the mind and ensnared the senses? What a simple sign of affection a kiss is! How complicated it was to share; especially with this man whom I loved more dearly than life itself! And yet it was so profoundly simple to pass it on to Raoul. . .

His body was still warm with fever, his face damp with tears and sweat, as I released him; I suddenly felt incomplete when I had un-wrapped my arms from him, as if something had gone missing. But it didn't take me long to figure it out - the answer was blatantly obvious. I simply did not exist without Erik. I was nothing if he wasn't there, if he wasn't with me. Sitting up now, vainly dabbing at his brow with the washcloth and checking the bandages on his forehead, I heard Nadir enter the room again. Wordlessly, he handed me a mug of tea and started to leave again.

"He's going to be all right," he assured me. "He's been through worse and still survived. . ."

I nodded, somewhat numb and feeling empty, sipping at the warm liquid. I felt only a little childish, staring at Erik as if he had suddenly grown another head. It was still remotely hard for me to keep my eyes on his face - not because of the features that would be horrendous to someone else, but because of the awful events that my foolish hysteria had caused.

"Mama? Are you there?" Erik's voice was suddenly innocent, an expression of fear passing over his eyes while his hand searched feebly for mine.

"I don't want to go to sleep, Mama," Erik suddenly whispered urgently, curling into a ball on the bed. "The monster will come back. . . the monster in the mirror! It frightened me, Mama; I don't want it to come back! I want it to go away forever. . ."

So he had feared his own face as a child. . . the same way that I had in one point in time. So even Erik had been afraid of something - he had been afraid of himself!

"Mama. . . I'm afraid. . . of the dark! I don't want the monster to get me. . ."

I took his hand and stroked his palm gently. "It's all right, my love," I said quietly, hesitantly, "I'm here."

"Will you protect me?"

"Of course, I will, Erik. . . for all time. . ."

  
  
Slowly, I woke to find myself once again in my room on the lake; the candles dim and nearly extinguished. I couldn't ever recall falling asleep during my silent vigil, and I began to quietly rebuke myself as I regained my bearings. I found that my head was rested on something, moving up and down. . . . There was a distant thudding in my ear; a familiar sound, with an even rhythm. . .

I'd fallen asleep on Erik's chest!

And even as I thought this, I could feel his soft breath on the back of my neck, his breathing even like that of a dreamer. I allowed myself the simple pleasure of knowing I was so close to him, becoming dizzy from that overpowering love. I sighed silently in contentment and was shocked to find that it was echoed by another voice.

I sensed a deliberate movement near me and had to force myself not to tense up. It took me a moment to realize that it was his hand that hovered over my cheek. His trembling fingers touched my skin gingerly for the briefest, yet most joyful, moment I'd ever experienced, before suddenly jerking away as though my skin had burned him. Silently I willed for those elegant fingers to touch my cheek once more, to call him away from that second-thought, but to no avail. He remained lying there, evidently rigid, trying not to move around excessively.

I took that moment to sit up and yawned quietly, covering my open mouth. I felt myself smile widely as I gazed into those golden orbs and I tenderly checked the bandages on his forehead.

"Good morning, Erik. How are you feeling?" 


	24. Another Waking

**A/N:** I'm VERY sorry for the extremely long delay; there's no excuse on my part, other than that little thing we like to call "life." And I've yet to have any true inspiration. I'm very, very sorry everyone.

  
  
  
  
**Erik:**

When I woke, I was more than annoyed to find I could barely remember the night before - save the moment when I recall falling into darkness. . . Disoriented, I looked around at my surroundings: the vanity table, the armoire, the cover of the bed. A bed, I suddenly noticed, and _not_ my coffin. . .

It slowly dawned on me that the room that I had slept in was the Louis-Philippe room, the room I'd given to Christine.

My temples throbbed dully, and my throat was vaguely sore. There was a heavy pressure on my chest, and I wondered if I'd had another attack. It wouldn't have surprised me - I'd surely been forcing myself through enough to trigger one. But how, then, had I been brought here?

I sighed softly with frustration and instinctively moved my hadn towards my chest. It wasn't until then that I realized that it wasn't a stroke that had caused the pressure on my chest - it was the dear weight of Christine! My hand stopped itself of its own accord, but I could not bring myself to put it down. What an opportune moment, I mused, to rid myself of the desire to, one last time, touch her skin; one last time, to touch her cheek.

Deliberately, I moved my hand closer to her warm, pink cheek. And then, as my fingers touched her skin, I had fallen into bliss.

I would have kept my fingers there for all the time had I not noticed the flash of white in the corner of my eye.

Pulling my hand away, I touched my own face as my gaze fell on the gleaming porcelain of the broken mask. In mute horror I covered my face with my arms, lest Christine should see me. At least, I thought bitterly, let me have _some_ dignity!

She sat up slowly, stifling a yawn with her delicate hand. And she looked directly at me! I wondered at her calmness in the presence of this ruined face - a face that I, myself, refused to even glance at. I let my arms drop uselessly to my sides and, to my astonishment, she graced me with an actual _smile_. My heart lept almost painfully to my throat as she touched the gauze on my forehead.

"Good morning, Erik," she said with unnerving composure. "How are you feeling?"

The initial shock of being unmasked still lingered, and I could only stare at Christine incredulously. How was it that she could bare to look at me without the shielding mask?

And it was for this that I reached for feebly. In understanding, she gave me the mask; even though she handled it carefully, the crack that had appeared in the middle of the pristine, white surfice grew out across it. Nonetheless, as I placed it back onto my face, the iciness of the porcelain calmed me greatly.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice somewhat hoarse. Instinctively, I flinched as her fingers felt my forehead once more. She frowned in a most endearing way as the coolness of her touch penetrated the bandages.

"You had a fever," she replied simply. "It's gone down now. . . you don't remember?"

I shook my head, closing my eyes for a moment. My throat had gone painfully dry at the thought of her being here with me, in _my_ home - and not because she had been forced. Nor was it because she had been kidnapped by the creature in the dark. Letting out a shuddering breath, I realized that she watching me with guarded curiosity.

"You really don't remember." It was a statement, not a question. "It was a high fever. . . well, it doesn't surprise me, then." She chewed on her lower lip gently and toyed with a crease on the covers, deep in thought.

"Erik," she ventured quietly. Her gaze slowly met mine, timidness filling her deep blue eyes. "I hope you don't mind my asking but. . . when is your birthday?"

Her question caught me off-guard, and for once I was lost for words. Birthdays. . . when _was_ my birthday? I would have laughed aloud at the fact that I didn't even know the date, had I not been so flustered by Christine's mere presence. I frowned behind the mask as the memory of mbeautiful mother bombarded me - the refusal of that simple sign of affection. . .

But why did Christine care about my birthday? Why did she even want to know when it was?

She too had an expression of mild surprise that it was taking me so long to remember, to provide her with a mere date. I smiled a little to bitterely and muttered, "You see. . . my poor, unhappy mother left the matter of days of birth out of our. . . conversations."

Christine nodded slowly, but by the look on her face, I knew she couldn't truly understand. "It's all right. . . I was only curious; I remember that you celebrated my birthday with me. . . when I was still in the corps de ballet. . . nevermind, Erik. Forget that I ever asked. I'll get you some water."

Nadir walked in as she left, showing me a half-smile and handing me a mask. He turned away obligingly as I replaced the broken one with the balck one. Turning back around, he stared at me, no ungently.

"How long has she been her?" I asked, slipping into Persian and breaking the silence that had settled.

"The whole night. Since we brought you home. So I take it you don't remember anything of what happened last night?"

"Has she eaten?"

"I made sure she ate something, yes. And I fed that damned cat of yourse." He showed me the back of his hands as evidence, revealing the shallow, but numerous, scratches he had accumulated. "He sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You were delirious, Erik. And since she stayed the whole night. . ."

He trailed off, an expression of helplessness on his face. I groaned quietly and pulled my hands through my hair. "What did I say?"

"I supposed that she. . . learned of a few events from your past. . ."

It was all I could do to supress another groan. Was _that_ why she wanted to know my birthday? Because I'd inadvertently told her of my mother's rejection? And is it because of the telling of my past that she had stayed? Maybe she wanted to know more about this insane creature that once kidnapped her and threatened her very life - her dear, precious, beautiful life. I'd ruined her innocence, destroyed any slim chance of her having any affection for me. In my obsession, I refused to acknowledge her feelings. And now. . . and now. . .

Christine entered the room again and suddenly her arrival broke through my brooding like a ray of sunlight through a blanket of dark clouds. Her smile radiated a sort of ethereal warmth and I couldn't help but feel a sense of security in that smiple expression. Without another word, Nadir nodded towards Christine and slipped out of the room.

"Here," she said, placing the cup in my hands. "I would have gotten you tea, but I'm not exactly the most skillful with that. . . _samovar_."

She said the foreign word with difficulty, frowning a little. I sipped at the water, quenching my parched throat. I felt her bright eyes on me as I examined the broken mask, though I paid very little attention to it.

And now. . . and now, I was willing to let her live her own life. I'm little more, really, than her obedient and loyal dog, laying at her feet. I was willing to kill for her, and now I am willing to die for her. She wasn't mine, as I had once thought, and I didn't have her wrapped around my poverbial finger. No, I'd had it all backwards. I was _hers_ to do with as she pleased. She held my soual and heart in her hands, and, perhaps, that is exactly as it should be.

"Summer," I murmured wistfully.

"What was that?"

Thoughtfully, I looked up at her, smirking slightly behind the back mask. "My birthday, I explained softly. "Late summer. . ."

The smile that appeared on her face would be the one expression that I would remember until the day I died.

  
  
  
  
**Author's Note**: Once again, the hiatus still stands. . . I'm really sorry, everyone. I was thinking I'd have time over winter break to get more chapters done, but unfortunately, that just wasn't the case. I don't know when the next chapter will be - whether it's next week, or next month. It may even be next summer. . . I just don't know. I do promise to _try_ and get another chapter up by New Year's, but I really don't see it happening.


	25. Nightingale

**Christine:**

"No, no, no, don't get up!"

I gently pushed Erik back onto the bed, pretending to ignore the look of astonishment on his face. However I could not help but allow a smile to form on my lips, and I laughed a little. "What do you need? I'll get it for you."

Erik gave me a puzzled look that slowly melted away to amusement. "I was going to get a book," he explained carefully. "You needn't coddle me." His tone of voice made me wonder if he wasn't blushing beneath his mask, and I attributed this to the (possibly) massive amount of attention I showered him with. As he started up again, I placed my hand on his shoulder, warranting another shocked glance.

"Really, I'll get it for you-" he moved to speak "- honestly, you act as if you haven't been spoiled before!" I'd meant my comment to be a joke, but after seeing the slightest frown, I realized the gravity of my statement. My fists clenched instinctively and I added quickly, trying to maintain the lightness in my voice, "Well, if it means so much, go ahead and find your book then." I released him and for a moment, neither of us moved. Slowly he lifted himself out of bed, but after a few steps, days of being bed-ridden (mostly due to my demands) and a still worrying fever took its toll. His legs faltered and immediately I was at his side. I heard a softly muttered curse and offered him a smile as a condolence.

It had been a little less than a week since Nadir and I had brought Erik down to his subterranean home due to his illness. Since then his fever had all but disappeared – his temperature would rise and fall with very little predictability, thought lately it had become more stabilized. And since then I had been doting on him much like a mother would care for her ill child. I wasn't quite sure if Erik was entertained or embarrassed by my antics, but either way I was hardly ashamed. Perhaps this way he could see first hand how much I cared for him?

I ventured back up to the Opera House for brief appearances so as to avoid more rumors concerning myself and the infamous Phantom of the Opera. Immediately after rehearsals Nadir would accompany me back to Erik's house on the lake and then would walk me back home – if I chose to go home. Often I would sleep on a divan in Erik's home so as to watch over him during the night. Vaguely I wondered over the implications of my actions but chose to ignore them – despite how improper it was. Erik still rested in the Louis-Philippe room, simply because I ordered him to stay put. In my mind I could not comprehend his getting well in his room filled with death. I imagine that he consented only to mollify me.

Embarrassed, Erik glanced at me, seemingly trying to gain my forgiveness, as I gently sat him on the bed. I could see the feeling of shame in his eyes, and I scolded myself a little for treating him as if he were a helpless infant. I took a seat beside him, though I was careful to maintain space between us. We sat in silence for what felt like hours, my mind racing and scrambling for topics to break this oppressive silence.

After some noticeable hesitation, Erik murmured, "Why are you doing this?" His musical voice was flat, but not accusing. His gaze was occupied by some spot on the floor, so I could not gauge his emotion at that point.

"I want you to get well," I answered simply, shrugging. What else was there to say? It seemed that my answer did not satisfy him, but he did not pursue the train of thought.

"When was the last time you spoke with. . . the Vicomte?"

I flinched a little and looked into tired and resigned eyes. It was then that I'd finally remembered his note – granted, I'd thought of it, but only briefly, and I had not recalled his invitation. A pang of guilt resounded through me; I moved to touch his hand as an act of apology but stopped myself, placing my hands back on my lap and staring fixedly at the wall. "I've not seen him since the gala."

From the corner of my eye I could see him wilt a little, and he turned away slightly. It was apparent from the slump of his shoulders that he was exhausted or, at least, fatigued. I saw him hesitate again before saying at length, "Do you. . ." he faltered, and after a beat, "Do you still. . . still. . ."

He did not continue, seeming to be at a loss. His slump became more apparent, and it was clear that he was not himself. Erik put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. I was not sure of what to do, so I simply sat in silence.

"Christine. . . I'm sorry. . ."

"Erik. . ."

He turned his face to me and there was an infinite sadness in the movement. My hand shook a little before taking his. I steeled myself for icy coldness – the touch of death that I had so often referenced only months earlier – but I felt only welcoming warmth. . . At my touch, however, he went rigid and instinctively recoiled. His eyes were wide and only briefly showed disbelief before instantly glazing over into his usual stoic calm. Almost immediately I regretted the simple action; I could have wept. I'd not fully realized the treacherous ground we tread, and it seemed I had just set-off the first trap. . .

My mind raced for a way to escape from this quicksand and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Nightingale."

Erik's icy composure dissolved back into uneasy amusement. "What did you say?"

"Tell me the story of the nightingale and the rose, Erik. . ."

**Erik**

Perhaps the most awkward of my days in the Opera House were those spent bed-ridden and useless in my own home, being attended to as if I were some fragile invalid capable of shattering at any second. I watched Christine with an almost horrified fascination and did not have the heart to stop her – she seemed to derive a sort of pleasant satisfaction from waiting on me like a hen tending to her chicks.

True, my illness did not seem to improve, nor did it seem to worsen – this did not mean, however, that I was incapable of caring for myself. It was humiliating, but I did not wish it to end! On some level I found serenity in our newly simplified relationship – nurse and patient – but I knew this would not and could not last forever. Pity is not, as a general rule, something I enjoyed accepting on a regular basis.

Nonetheless I was always at a loss for words when she greeted me with that dazzling and innocent smile. My thoughts and annoyances seemed to scatter at her very presence; I never mentioned my misgivings, but eventually she was beginning to sense my uneasiness.

These days I began feeling increasingly wearier, and I wondered if perhaps my age was finally catching-up to me. The irony was overwhelming. Perhaps I did need a nurse after all!

But I found Christine's willingness to play the part bewildering. Before, when I'd had my attack after first having brought her down here, the role had been forced on her for both her survival and my own. This time there were no lives at stake, and she knew well enough how to escape from this wretched house. Nadir was even here for added security. So if not for survival, if not for hope of freedom, then why?

It suddenly dawned on me one day, sending my mind reeling with possibilities.

Maybe. . . maybe hope _did_ play a factor here.

Maybe she finally trusted me.

Maybe she . . . cared for me?

I dared not assume or read too much into this. I feared that too much hope on my part would prove to be foolish. Perhaps she did care for me – but it was likely it was not in the way I would desire.

But this could not last. All dreams end with a rude awakening.

If puzzling over Christine's intentions did not drive me insane, I mused, surely boredom would!

I made to go for a book but was quickly reproached by the ever vigilant Christine. After some rather questionable banter, she finally permitted me to do something for myself.

Irony, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy torturing me.

My knees buckled and I felt that fatigue had decided to force its payment from me. Muttering a curse I felt Christine's supporting arm leading me to take a seat on the bed. I wondered briefly over how quickly she had come to my aid, and was more impressed that she had once again been willing to touch me. And not for the first time, I felt oddly frightened that I did not have control of the situation. I'd been wrong – I once thought that Christine lacked maturity, that she would prove to be incapable of governing her own life, that she would need someone to guide her. This was one of the few moments that it was better to be wrong than right.

As she sat next to me, tempting me with her closeness, I struggled to keep myself in control. It seemed to be an opportune moment for me to ask her of her motives. At the time I was too flustered to think of a tactful way of asking her. The only other option was to ask her outright. . .

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you to get well." I glanced at her momentarily as she shrugged her small shoulders. I wondered as to _why_ she wanted that, but I chose not to ask. Instead, a more pressing issue had occurred to me. . .

"When was the last time you saw the . . . Vicomte?"

She looked over in bewilderment and I embraced the idea that perhaps she had only seen him hours before. It certainly wouldn't have been surprising. What she said was, "I've not seen him since the gala. . ."

I saw regret in her eyes, but I did not know what it was she regretted. Maybe she had missed some meeting with the boy in order to care for my pathetic self? Perhaps she regretted not being able to see him due to rehearsals. Or maybe she was regretting her return to the Opera House. . .

Suddenly I felt exceedingly tired. I could not continue to compete with the Vicomte forever! I'd lost the first time, would I lose again? Past experience led me to believe I would. . . but for some reason I grasped desperately to my last blinding ray of hope. . .

_ No one can save you now, except perhaps Christine!  
_

The words I'd spoken that night had been to the Vicomte, but now I realized that they were true for me as well and always had been. . .

"Do you still. . ." I tried to force myself to stop shaking. "Do you still. . ."

_ Do you still love him?  
_

It should have been simple enough to ask, but in reality it was about as simple as moving the very earth. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. No, nothing was easy with Christine – sometimes it seemed that breathing, even existing, was an arduous task when I was around her. My love for her was dangerous for both of us, but I knew that there was no way to rid myself of it and I did not wish to discover a way. But I knew that it was because of me, because of my paltry desire to be loved, that had caused her so much torture, so much grief.

"I'm sorry, Christine. . ." I hoped she understood my sincerity.

"Erik. . ."

I looked up at her when she uttered my name, feeling that some act of blasphemy had occurred when this angel had spoken the name of a demon. Her fingers twitched a little before she daringly took my hand in hers. Shock stabbed through me like a saber and I felt my body go stiff. I instinctively pulled away, though my heart screamed and demanded to touch her. A shudder coursed through me, my mouth going dry with desire. Why had I jerked away from her? Instinct had betrayed me, and my hands tightened into fists. As my mind battled my heart for control, I saw Christine shrink away in hurt surprise. No words could describe how much I wanted to comfort her, but it was as if I had been held captive by invisible chains and rope. The more I yearned to hold her, the harder it seemed to move.

But. . . what did this all mean? She had touched me, why did I find it so hard to reciprocate it? She had touched me. . . she had. . .

"Nightingale," she murmured, her voice just barely audible in the thundering silence.

I felt the invisible hands holding me back start to loosen their hold. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. I Nightingale /I . . . the tale I had told her so many times of forbidden love was eternally imprinted into my mind. Was that what she had said? My heart raced, hardly daring to believe that, perhaps, she was hinting at something, like I had done. When I was sure my voice would not betray me, I said with equal softness, "What did you say?"

"Tell me the story of the nightingale and the rose, Erik. . ."

I laughed for some reason, probably because I realized the completely foolishness of the situation. She was confused, and I saw that this reaction was probably causing her more pain. Quickly I looked her in the eye and assured her, "Of course, my angel. . ."

And in the sudden tranquility, it was suddenly so much easier to breathe, so much easier to exist. . . .

It took a moment to realize that I held her hand.

It took another to realize I was smiling.

Christine was smiling in return.


End file.
